Sean Bean Saves Westeros - Book 3: Sean Hits the Wall
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: With the War between the Baratheons settled, it will soon be time for whatever remains left of our wreck of a heroic actor from Sheffield to head North with his banners to face Ironborn, Wildlings, and Wights ... Oh My!
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 **June 18**

 **(Soon after midnight of the evening in which the events of the Epilogue of Book 2 occurred)**

Moqorro knew it wrong that he preferred the Night to the Day, for had the Red God not warned since the dawn of time and the start of the eternal struggle that 'the Night is dark and full of terrors?' He pondered that question often and deeply, none more so than now; reflecting upon his worthiness as he searched for the boy now shown in every fire spread out across the vast floor that once housed dragons to keep the faithful warm from the descending chill.

In his fiery heart he never believed himself to be a secret, unwitting emissary of the Frozen God of Death. He had slit the throat of more than one of those. No. Red Priests more devout than himself had first set him on the acolyte's path, trained him, and increasingly trusted him with both great and little matters of the soul and of the world. Until that day many years past, when the far seeing Benerro, younger than himself but blessed vastly more by R'hllor, had chosen him as his deputy in the Red Temple of Volantis. His infatuation with the Night was not a trap.

But was it the sin of faithlessness that drove him to it? A physical need for the warmth of fire and the guiding light of stars as proof of R'hllor's tangible grace; dispensed to guard both believer and non-believer against the consuming blackness of the Great Other. For though even he knew doubt, which his stern, unyielding face revealed to none; only a fool never doubted. Were the embers in his fiery heart so faint that they required reassurance?

Or did the sin of pride drive Moqorro to stay awake when most slept ignorant of the danger about them? Because he had always seen R'hllor's path best in the Night. He was skilled, few better at it. Not that he claimed perfection in reading the visions that flickered in the dancing hot reds and whites and blues and oranges. In many ways, the errant illusions sent by the unnamable enemy to test and trick the Lord of Light's priests prepared them best for the unending war.

The white haired, black skinned, fire tattooed man had long since become used to not being surprised. The blessed gift of the God of Flame and Shadow had seen to that. His affinity for the Night and visions was simply the fate of the path R'hllor blessedly granted him the moment he was born in that squalid hut on the savannahs of distant Sothoryos. And decades ago the flames had revealed to Moqorro that his path would end and he would join the Heart of Fire on a Night of great sacrifice.

There. Finally, he spied the flesh of the child among the slumbering throngs who sought a full belly and a fuller spirit in the ruins of this once magnificent, cavernous structure. A street waif bundled up in a ratty blanket beside a banked fire; sleeping the last innocent moments of his path. A dangerous, twisting path that with R'hllor's mercy would outlast Moqorro's own rapidly closing one.

Upon first gazing at King's Landing across the bitter water from the Volantene cog, Moqorro had instantly known he would never leave this strange, foreign, heathen land. Over his many years the flames had falsely shown him to die in many ways in hundreds of places: at sea in a great storm, by the terrible magic of a great horn, beneath the soaring pyramids of Meereen; so many. The Mentors in the Temples always cautioned new acolytes against the dangers of searching out their demises. Yet men and women, being weak sinners, never listened. Moqorro had not. And here, with the three hills jutting up behind huge walls, each adorned with its own mighty edifice; yes, his fiery heart had recognized where his service in this world would cease.

That had left only the exact time of it for the Red God to unveil as the last gift for his service.

A gift not so readily glimpsed.

From the moment that Moqorro and his acolytes stepped ashore, the fate setting power of Azor Ahai reborn had warped the very ability of the flames to reveal the truth. The most obvious distortion being the invisibility granted to the fleshly sheath named Eddard Stark; his presence only detectable by the absence he cast. Some paths started clear, then hazed over as they neared the nexus that was the human and the divine made one; only to solidify again as distance and time provided prospective … and ultimately a false path. The true paths entered the haze and never emerged; at best offering a flickering hint through the gloom if they were not swallowed too deeply; like the bastard with royal blood.

This had left Moqorro in the vexing position of being a Red Priest of the Order of the Secret Fire assigned by the Flame of Truth himself to deduce the path of the world's salvation. Again, the absence of things cast in the light of the flame had guided him as best he could fathom in creating this community of believers in the ruined home of R'hllor's most cherished and cursed beasts.

Then, a mere hour ago, the aura, the absence cast by Azor Ahai reborn had astonishingly thinned; gaping rents slashed in the veil of destiny. In horror, Moqorro thought he was watching the destruction of the Heart of Fire's promise to his children and the beginning of the Great Other's Long Night. Spellbound, he had barely breathed as he extended himself farther than ever before into the heat and colors and images.

And as the flesh made divine's existence hovered between life and death, the flames revealed to him the fool who never doubted. It was her work, her shadow binding skills, her venom, her utter certainty, nestled as a parasite invisible within the fate maker's aura that had risked all; temporarily draining the last of her glamours as she struck. In those precious seconds before the blade in the Priestess' left hand slew the blade in her right hand, much was confirmed.

Even the most talented ignorant in the Lord of Light's flock was his tool.

And the exact time that Moqorro's path ended was at last laid bare. Tonight, for R'hllor willed it. And he could only willingly accept.

The imposing, large bellied man from another land knelt down and gently nudged the slumbering, white skinned orphan. "Boy, wake up," he urged compassionately.

Big, round brown eyes blinked up at him in confusion. "Master?" a soft, sleepy voice answered.

"The Red God calls you to great duty tonight."

"Whhhhat?"

"You must make a great journey, child. Farther than you could ever imagine. Beyond the walls of this city?"

Awareness and fear began to flitter across the unwashed, soot stained face of the urchin. "Wwwhy?"

He caressed the child's cheek. "Because the God of Flame and Shadow has marked your fiery heart for great service. You will travel alone, but all of our spirits shall watch over you from this night on."

The apple in the thin, bony neck bobbed heavily. "Where must I go?" he sniffled, attempting bravery.

"To the Riverlands."

"So far. I … I don't want to," his courage wilted at the impossibility even his youthful ignorance recognized.

"What is your name?" he asked kindly, as if the boy was his own grandson.

"Adrik, master."

"It is written in the flames, Adrik. And so you must go. I, Moqorro, priest of this temple have seen it. You will witness wonders not seen in millennia. Azor Ahai will bless you himself," he said with wonder. A lesser man than himself would have felt jealousy, but he knew his R'hllor granted fate and was well satisfied.

"How … how do I get there?" the child asked with curiosity mixed in with the fear.

"I will show you, Adrik, the secret exit out of the Dragonpit from my chambers. Then you must hie yourself to the Old Gate. You know the Old Gate, do you not?"

The waif nodded his understanding and then was clever enough to ask, "But its dark, the gate will be closed."

"R'Hllor will provide, child." There was no sense frightening him with how the Lord of Light would provide the needed distraction. "Free of the city, you must follow the path of the setting sun. R'Hllor and our spirits shall guide you. Seek the Stoney Sept. Search for the lord whom the Red God stays from death. There is a message he must hear," Moqorro said urgently.

Brown eyes grew wider.

"Remember these words: 'Lord Stark is Azor Ahai reborn. Protect him, for the Lady Melisandre yet lives and seeks his destruction.' Can you remember that, Adrik?"

The scruffy urchin nodded.

There was so much more information he yearned to share with the Defender of the World, for he saw the child's path merge with that of the Lightning Lord and his dissolute priest; disappearing into the miasma of the divine to never emerge again. But the Heart of Fire had chosen this unremarkable boy, the flimsiest of his vessels to carry the necessary warning. He must therefore limit it to its barest essence.

"Then repeat the words for me, my strong believer," he commanded gently.

"Lord Stark is the Azor Ahai. Protect him. The Lady Meli..meli..melisandre still lives and wishes to kill him."

"Good enough, Adrik, for we are all tools of the Fiery Heart's love. Remember that too, child, on your path. Now follow me," Moqorro commanded kindly, standing back up; casting a long shadow in the flickering lights illuminating the vast insides of the newest temple of the Red God – once called the Dragonpit.

* * *

The priest, the acolytes, the Fiery Hand, and the faithful who had chosen not to flee stood proudly, facing the bonfire built within the middle of their barely consecrated holy place. Everything that could be burned had been scavenged for the flames that now leapt almost as high as the vaulted, holed, partly coppered temple ceiling.

Tempted as he had been to turn the whole of the former Dragonpit into both a pyre and a last loving offering, he could not do that to the poor, suffering smallfolks who lived in the foul, fetid slums strewn about the Hill of Rhaenys. They deserved better. Enough of them would burn regardless. And they would remember the sacrifice made on their behalf. So like the seeds of a desert flower at the end of a long drought, belief would one day take root and flower and flourish again.

The first distant thunder reached his ears; time to lead the remnants of his flock in one last round of prayers. "Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord. Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path . . . " he began the call.

"Lord of Light, defend us!" they answered him.

"R'hllor, you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins!"

"The night is dark and full of terrors!" they chanted.

"Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night!"

"Lord of Light, protect us!" they replied.

"R'hllor who gave us breath, we thank you!"

"We thank you for the sun that warms us!" they cried.

The thunder of Melony's clever malice was almost upon them; screamed cries and the beating of hooves.

"R'hllor who gave us day, we thank you!"

"We thank you for the stars that watch us!" they prayed

Then, Moqorro joined his voice to theirs. "We thank you for our hearths and for our torches, that keep the savage dark at bay!"

And then it began rolling over them; born slave, born freeman, born noble, born of love, born of rape … all become children of R'hllor's vast love.

This assembly of believers was the sacrifice she had made in her foolish ignorance to remain hidden from Azor Ahai reborn, but he made his own fate. And all, even a former slave girl, were simply R'hllor's tools. She could not escape the Red God ordained end of her path.

"SORCERERS!"

"WINTER IS COMING!"

"MURDERERS!"

"FOR BLESSED NED!"

"FUCKING SONS OF BITCHES!"

"ASSASSINS!"

"DIE BASTARDS!"

"EAT STEEL!"

"FOR LORD STARK!"

"HEATHEN FUCKS!"

"UNGRATEFUL DOGS!"

"FOR BLESSED NED!"

' _Yes, for Azor Ahai reborn,_ ' Moqorro agreed silently, watching calmly as those believers nearest the gates he had ordered to be left wide open began to fall beneath the steel onslaught of enraged Northmen; believers, in their own misguided way, of the Lord. He forgave them all; for many of them would one day stand as their Lord would, on that distant, towering wall of ice, against the start of the Long Night. What more could one of the Faithful hope from heathens?

Proudly he noted that barely a one flinched at death. And as their senior Priest, he could do no less; to show his last, ultimate devotion to the Lord of Light's will before he ascended to the Hall of Light.

As the horse and the swinging sword swept at him, Moqorro stood rock still to meet the end of his path.

THUNK!

He barely felt the pain of the huge wound ripped into his chest and side.

Moqorro toppled over, his body and necked crooked in such a way that his fading eyes stared up to the flickering light and shadows dancing on the few remaining faded copper panels of the battered ceiling.

Beautiful.

Yet.

A slight sense of disappointment.

Moqorro would have liked to have had one last chance to see the Night stars dancing their defiance at ...


	2. Chapter 1 - Olenna

**Olenna**

 **June 20**

" _Something smells,_ " Olenna thought as she watched the smoke rise above Maegor's from the Florent Queen's pyre and off into an already dark and brooding sky. Not a new thought for the wizened Lady; far from it. The beat of that frustrating, suspicion-laden refrain had become near constant in her o'erly weary brain since moments after her arrival the previous day at the catastrophe named King's Landing.

That observation made for a welcome distraction from the ruthless chastisement that the curse of hindsight kept throwing in her wrinkled face. Two days! Two days too late to the stop the ravaging of her house's status and her family's health, if not life. This the Queen of Thorns could not readily abide. Why had she not departed Highgarden, by river galley and not horse, the very day Mace and Garlan had finally ridden out to chase after pretty, spoiled, thoughtless Renly Baratheon?

Olenna knew the sad, brutal truth of it; she was simply grown old and tired and slipping. The effort of haranguing her complacent, too pleased, would be grandfather of a King, son off his enormous arse at Stannis Baratheon's clever rearranging of the board had simply exhausted her. And her once keen mind had damnably failed to anticipate that the elder of the two Stags, or - perhaps as was widely whispered - his wolfish advisor, might well tip things even more dangerously against her interests.

No, that discomforting insight had only come with the serendipitous dual appearance at Highgarden of both Paxter - carrying the offer of Master of Ships - and dark wings sent by her informers - baring the bones of the Blackfish's embassy to the younger Stag. Ten irretrievable days lost. The resulting journey up the Mander with Paxter to a waiting Mace, Garlan, and Margaery in Bitterbridge had been relatively easy and fast. Infuriatingly for once, her oaf of a son had actually listened to her raven delivered entreaty and paused the very quest she had prodded him into so that she might foolishly join him.

The rest of the journey turned into a trail of agony for her ancient bones as fast horse litters jarringly carried her up the Roseroad, into the Kingswood, and down the short stretch of the Kingsroad to the Blackwater Rush. For though they had ridden fast, it had neither been so fast as if they were unencumbered by an old woman nor ultimately fast enough to avoid fate. The speed of the litter and her mind numbing misery had slowed them; to find Loras near death, Margaery no longer a queen, and her house's undisputed position atop the Reach tittering. Two days! The Seven mocked her hubris and witlessness.

Well, there was nothing left her than to muck out the mountainous piles of manure left in House Tyrell's blighted garden; allst the while the Game of Thrones continued on, as ever it must. Thankfully, some of the manure, judiciously applied, might fertilize the Golden Rose into 'Growing Strong' again. Potential plays still existed that could render her house's position on the board salvageable. So, without yet knowing all the pieces or their motivations, the Queen of Thrones intended to assess each plant, garden wisely, and apply the most basic maxim: never send a boy to do a Great Lady's work.

With the flames finally leaping up from the mound of wood, the dull gold and flat black clothes covering Selyse Florent's stiff body started to visibly blacken and smolder. Soon after, Olenna's aged nose caught the first unpleasant whiffs of charred flesh mixed in with the aromatic smoke issuing copiously from the stack of burning cedars, pines, and oaks.

The composition of the circle of lords and knights gathered in the Red Keep's inner bailey to pay homage to the murdered Queen gave hope to her belief that the situation might not be irredeemable. They were almost entirely Stannis Baratheon's recent foes from the Reach, the Stormlands, and the Westerlands who still wore the mud from bending the knee. A glum, unenthusiastic lot; not surprising given the circumstances, but one dutifully attendant on the new King.

Whereas of his allies, only the Crownlanders stood among the funeral crowd. Of the North, thanks to the belief about the assault upon the Stark, nary a lord. And from the Vale and the Riverlands, just two lords, by mark of obligation as members on the Small Council, did their duty: the mediocre Nestor Royce and the impressive Brynden Tully. Stannis Baratheon, by imprudently obliging his wife's wicked rites, offered House Tyrell a wedge to exploit. The only question was in which direction.

The first logs deep within the conflagration started to crack, splinter, and shift. An anticipatory hush filled the silence in the bailey as the corpse of the flame worshipping fox wearing stag colors tilted ... and then steadied. Whoever had reattached that ungainly eared head to the too lanky body, and it had not been the Silent Sisters, that much was certain, appeared to have done an adequate job of it.

For the moment, there would be no second, faux decapitation to appease the uneasy Seven worshipping crowd and further humiliate the Florent woman's pathetic legacy. However, as the flames and heat continued to rise, only time would tell, it always did one way or the other. The tools utilized in delicate work oft being as important as the skill in manipulating them.

As the immolation continued too slowly and too grotesquely for her interest, the Queen of Thorns distracted herself with the petty conjectures, such as whether strident Selyse was at last rid of that unsightly hirsute upper lip. Then, inevitably, on to wondering what righteous people, except during a contagion, burned their dead? "What a barbaric practice," she inadvertently huffed loudly in remonstrance upon discovering none.

"Mother," Mace reprimanded her both promptly and quietly.

As night follows day, her son opened his mouth and she grimaced at what came out of it. "We are surrounded by friends. None here cared much for the ugly termagant. And _certainly_ not for her heretical religion. Not the King. Nor his absent friends," she openly declared, bobbing her white haired head towards the Stormlands' side of the circle about the pyre.

"Yeeessssss," he begrudgingly hissed.

"Stannis Baratheon knows our House is irrevocably beholden to him," she pointedly argued, while again bobbing her head in the same direction to where Garlan, as Hand, stood dutifully, somberly, proudly there beside the King. Golden shackles that. As part of the wealth of the Westerlands flowed into the coffers of rival Reach lords, so would Highgarden's coin ebb away into the bottomless pit of Harren's folly _granted_ dear Garlan. "Where is the harm in speaking the truth?" she complained, both angry and appreciative at how cleverly she was constrained.

"Grandmother, Lord Alester and Sers Alekyne, Imry, and Erren are present. It is an offense to the _Mother_ and the _Stranger_ to speak ill of her Grace's memory near her kin," Margaery tried delicately to censure her.

She crinkled her lips derisively at the silly girl who held claim as her granddaughter. The Florents were nothing in and of themselves; Stannis' audacious, yet conservative play had promised a neutralized Brightwater Keep. And he was not a man to go back on his word. Besides, by repute, the King would long remember the pack of foxes failure to support him. Had he not deliberately chosen to stand apart from his Queen's kin here? That left the Florents to try to ingratiate themselves elsewhere; their marriage alliances to both Leyton Hightower and Randyll Tarly being the obvious ploys she must somehow foil. "What do the Seven care? Is this a Sept? No. Selyse Florent worshipped a vile foreign flame god. This foolish pyre will only propel her sinful soul all the faster down into the lowest depths of the SevenHells."

"Grandmother," came the shocked condemnation.

"Tell me again, Margaery, why you are not standing by the side of your husband, _Lord_ Renly?" she peevishly pointed out using that spoiled child's new old title. The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands also stood alongside his brother among his banner lords. Undoubtedly brewing over his defeat. Probably contemplating another rebellion. Even possibly contemplating another murder. Rumor was rife over Renly's role in the Queen's death and the attack on the Stark; not that either made sense to Olenna, even given how stupid and dangerous as Renly was prone to be.

"In consideration of his Grace's grief, my sweet lord husband did not wish to rub the joy of our fresh marriage in the sore wound of the King's tragedy," the young chit explained with vast sympathy, as if her grandmother did not have two peas to rub together in her head.

"Harrumph," Olenna replied skeptically. The pair's bedside reunion in Renly's tent had not been that of young lovers overjoyed at the end of a forced two months separation, no, definitely not. But for the moment, the two at least shared together a fierce devotion in tenderly nursing Loras' hideous wounds. Though would that change when the poor dear caught wind of the equally rampant rumors about her husband and her brother? Regardless of the truth that she strongly harbored, the old woman prayed her repugnantly disfigured grandson would live. His shattered leg had already begun to fester from the demon wolf's venom.

Woosh!

The sudden air sucking sound drew her wandering attention and myopic gaze back into the redolent smoke and haze of heat cast by the flames; revealing that the Florent's hair had ignited in a ball of fire, transforming her whole head into an obscene torch. The corpse's clothes were now nothing but embers and ash. The exposed flesh a nauseating patchwork of seared, cracked, roasting, black meat where it had not already burnt fully off to reveal protrusions of white bone.

"Only crazed fanatics could enjoy this," the old woman muttered to herself in disgust at the bile surging sight. Her forbearance and strength of will at an end, Olenna placed a perfume-laden scarf to her nose to aid her breathing.

"What was that, Lady Olenna?" Mathis Rowan obsequiously inquired.

"When I say something I want you to hear you'll know it, Mathis Rowan," she snapped at the fair weathercock friend of Mace's; yet another grasping lord whose pride had been bruised this morning by not being allowed to directly attend the King.

"My pardon, my Lady."

She granted him a wan smile to acknowledge his apology. At least that one, along with dear Paxter, would not be inclined to join any conspiracy to replace her House as Lord Paramounts of the Mander; not until success and his place in the conspiracy sat assured. The same cold calculation could not be applied to the fecund Hightowers, wily Arwyn Oakheart whose line was now betrothed into the Starks, or the absent, humiliated, prideful Randyll Tarly.

"Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord. Fill your servant's heart with fire, so she may walk your shining path," an unsure, barely audible voice called out into the roar of the fire in what must be a blessing of this Essosi God's.

Olenna snorted in derision; little remained of Selyse to walk a path, shining or other, or a heart to fill thanks to fire. Idiots. In agreement with her, the whole of the circle started to shift uncomfortably at the blasphemous invocation.

"Lord of Light, defend us," came the muted response of the betrayers of the Seven who remained for the non in royal service.

There were not more than a score of whom she'd heard called the Queen's Men present, or at least willing to open their mouths; no doubt in fear of the Northmen despite their snubbing of the ceremony. The wounded Stark had accused Red Priests of the supposedly sorcerous attack upon him: shadow assassins. Ha! Only a deadly, ignorant First Men would believe such absurdity; a sledgehammer of a tool, effective, but limited.

"R'hllor, you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins."

Like fanatics themselves, the Old Gods worshipping Northmen had extracted the vengeance desired by the supposedly reborn Lord of Winterfell. The fallen, whom she heard had madly stood still and simply chanted their heresies as defense against the bloody rampage, had received their own "blessed" fire in the inferno the rampaging Northmen had made of the Dragonpit. The smoke from that and half of burned down Rhaenys' hill still hung like a grey veil in the windless air over the city.

"The night is dark and full of terrors," the few chanted weakly.

" _And the day too_ ," Olenna thought of the fool who botched the assassination, if he was not already dead. Tortured, barely conscious in some cellar deep below the Maidenvault; every last ounce of information being flayed out of him by the likes of that Bolton lord. A dagger for the Stark to wield later, but against whom?

"Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night."

She would not pray that the Stark survive his wounds, so similar she'd been told to the ones his Willas crippled like son's cursed wolf had inflicted on her sweet, misguided Loras. The parallels in that regard between her house and the Stark's were blindingly obvious; yet drew no sympathy from her. Nor did it give her a sense Seven granted justice. No, the man was too powerful and worse, too clever, to be allowed to continue playing at the Game of Thrones; so long as the odor of his death could not in any way be traced back to the wilting Golden Rose.

"Lord of Light, protect us!" they called back.

The pyre suddenly erupted in a powerful explosion of brilliant, ruby red flame; casting yellow and orange burning sticks and white-hot glowing coals and tiny flotsams of blackened flesh all about the inner bailey. Instantly, the circle or "mourners" broke apart. Lords and knights not caring a whit for each other's position or dignity turned to block the debris or crouched low in avoidance or scurried off as fit their own needs and instincts.

Some either clever or impious fools even started crying "a sign!" and other such nonsense. But of the Seven or this Essosi R'hllor, none declared.

Pleasingly, both Mace and Mathis Rowan grabbed her, not so gently, to put their thick bodies between her and harm. More pleasingly, she glimpsed Garlan attempting the same with the King. Successfully reconstituting a blighted garden required the careful tending of new shoots as much as it did the outright culling of diseased plants.

* * *

The size of the Queen of Throne's litter, as well as the looming presence of Left and Right, kept undesirables away from the Tyrell conclave as they swayed and jolted their way down the serpentine stairs from the inner bailey to the middle one. The only others in ear range were her four porters; long serving, trusted men brought with her from Highgarden, where their families lived under watchful eyes. Olenna had years early found the quantity of burly, deaf mutes with the wits to learn the necessary range of hand gestures quite insufficient; and thus managed the loyalty of her servants with the available safeguards as best she could.

Far ahead of them, already approaching the swing in the stairs that would take them past the backside of the Maidenvault and the injured wolf, were the King, Garlan, Renly and Margaery leading the procession of lords and knights away from the funeral and to the first, full meeting of the new Small Council. Full, except for Gormon, who should soon be leaving the Citadel once the raven arrived to declare that a sole King undisputedly ruled King's Landing and all Seven Kingdoms.

"Of course the Northmen did something to the pyre," Mathis Rowan droned on like a dog unwilling to let go its favorite bone. "T'was them that killed her Grace," he repeated. "Lord Eddard likely wished one last humiliation upon her for his pains."

"Because Selyse Florent sent the attacker against Lord Stark?" Paxter reiterated dubiously.

There was as much irritating mystery surrounding that near fatal assault as the other, more successful one.

"Lord Lancel and Ser Tyrek claimed that the two fought like curs for the King's affection," Mathis Rowan stated emphatically from his post escorting the right side of her open-air litter down the steps.

Olenna snorted in amusement. " _Fought for Stannis Baratheon's affection; words never before uttered by man, woman, or beast_ ," she thought disparagingly. Respect, fear, competency, persistence – those attributes applied to Stannis Baratheon; not affection. Or dare she imagine, love? Ha! " _Not for that unbending lump of iron._ "

Knowing her verbal ticks and moues of condescension near as well as Mace, Mathis Rowan immediately suspected her opinion and proved persistent in vigorously defending his supposition of intrigue and violence, "They were rivals. Fought over the Lady Sansa being one of her Grace's ladies-in-waiting. Lord Eddard feared her Grace might induce Lady Sansa to worship that odious Red God," he puffed indignantly.

Lady Sansa, there was a Stark whom the old woman could pity; that cunt Joffery Hill had treated the maiden monstrously. " _What if it had been Margaery to suffer?_ " She shuddered to think; but knew damnably well how far the Queen of Thorns would have gone to prevent or avenge such an affront.

"And the destruction of the Dragonpit a mere ruse?" Mace posed; the lummox still trying to fit the complex but too simple pieces together.

"Yes, what would the Northmen care of them – a boon to the goodwill of the Faithful. What's more, Lord Eddard knew Her Grace cared little for them as well. A schism between rival temples of their bloody Red God or some such heathen nonsense," Mathis Rowan continued.

"And the Lord of Winterfell secretly wishes to break the lady's betrothal to the Freys and have her marry the King instead?" Paxter asked for confirmation, concluding the replay of the gist of Mathis Rowan's rambling theory.

"You have not heard the Lady sing and play her harp; which she reportedly did often for their Graces. Bewitching!" And immediately he started humming a tune that was indeed hauntingly lovely despite how poorly he did so. "Makes one forgot how she … how she looks." And then a laugh. "As if looks would matter to his Grace in choosing his next Queen," Mathis Rowan added snidely.

Paxter and Mace, walking to the right of her litter, chuckled at the quip made at Selyse Florent's ashy expense and the King's repute. It was oft joked that Stannis Baratheon's cock must be iron to ever stand when near her. And damned well rusted anyway, as there was only the greyscale struck Shireen as proof they rutted even as much as once. Despite his many faults, Renly could be quite a droll fellow at times.

No matter the humor of the statement, the Queen of Thorns recognized the inexorable logic behind the phrase " _his next Queen_." Who else but one seeking to have the new King marry again would slay the Queen whilst leaving his Grace, drugged asleep, alive, right next to the slain hag? " _So obvious_ ," she rebuked her slow wits. Whether it was the Stark, that was likely something else.

"Paxter," she commanded.

"Yes, Naunt Olenna?"

"Before the day is out, send word to the Arbor by ship or raven; Desmera shall sail soonest to King's Landing."

There were naught but a few straggly wisps of red hair atop her nephew's head, but little wrong with what lay inside. "To woo the King?"

"Of course to woo the King. T'will be what's expected. King's Landing will soon be overrun with ripe maidens chasing the title 'Her Grace.' We shall stand out and draw suspicion if we do not play along; regardless how much Stannis Baratheon despises our houses. And our only other choice is sweet Elinor and now is not the time to break a betrothal to the Ambroses."

Her kin all nodded in understanding. Lord Arthur was married to Alysanne Hightower and had been among the lords who had begun to distance themselves from the Renly-Tyrell alliance before Loras' fall. Elinor might not suffice to keep the ants loyal, but openly snubbing them through her could irrevocably throw them into opposition to Highgarden.

"So Desmera is not to win the King's heart?" Paxter half suggested and half asked for confirmation.

The exclusion of her grandniece from the slew of marriage alliances proffered by the elder of the two Stags and his wolf turned loyal sheep dog had initially bothered Olenna's vanity. Was not Desmera, unlike her brothers, attractive? Did the girl lack charm and the quality to become a Great Lady? But then, the spider web built to imprison Highgarden through war by greed and marriage had become obvious to her. The posts of Master of Ships and hostage for House Redwyne and that of Hand and Harrenhal to hold House Tyrell hostage; and nothing more. "She may try if she cares to be disappointed. Desmera's true purpose shall be to tally week by week and month by month which House's fortunes rise and which fall in pursuit of this illusive crown."

Paxter sighed. Then, "Yes, Naunt Olenna," he dutifully agreed.

"A year only, dear," she announced, understanding her nephew's concern. Had not his hostage sons only just been returned to his care? And himself already stepping in to take their place with the new King upon the Iron Throne.

"A hundred dragons, his Grace marries Lady Sansa," Mathis Rowan chortled over the top of the litter at his longtime friend.

This attitude irked the Queen of Thrones. They were not playing at Cyvasse or watching a joust; this was part of the board upon which the Game of Thrones was played and she had little interest in dying. "Your duty in this farce of marriages, Lord Mathis," she declared sternly, "is to convince Randyll Tarly to betroth his daughter Marianne to my Willas."

"I-I-I am?" Mathis Rowan stuttered.

"What?" growled Mace at the same time. She had been leaning that way since last night, but had not had time to fully form her thoughts or to inform Mace of what is most judicious play was.

"Lord Randyll is the Reach's best general," she stated as explanation; one that caused the self-absorbed Mathis Rowan's pride to indistinctly grumble. "We must assure him of our trust in his abilities and reward his service." " _So that he does not instead ally with the Hightowers, Oakhearts, and his Florent kin,_ " she judged. With the crown still unsteady upon Stannis Baratheon's head and his well-known loathing of the Tyrells, it would be unwise to blindly count upon the King, dutiful though his character was, to support their hegemony over the Reach in the event of an open challenge.

"In losing his battle and _Heartsbane_ to the boy Stark's pet wolf?!" Mathis Rowan blurted out incredulously, restraint of a bloated ego torn away in the blink of an eye.

To SevenHells with a silly piece of Valyrian steel when Highgarden and her house were at stake! "Greater things than a sword have been lost to that beast, Mathis Rowan," the Queen of Thrones said cold as the Stranger's kiss.

Both her son and Paxter joined her in glaring angrily at the pompous buffoon, undoubtedly believing her to speak of Loras; which she was, but only tangentially. Mace, in his ire, even forgot for a moment his dismay at her surprise dictate of whom Willas must marry. Time her grandson gave up his ridiculous dream of marrying his "Jenny of Oldstones."

"Uhm, err, my apologies, my lady. I spoke … hastily," Mathis Rowan answered contritely, if not wholly believably.

The old woman, though ruing her need of Goldengrove, refrained from lashing him further with her tongue. "Lord Renly's disgrace has made these difficult times for the Reach," she conceded. "As your daughter is betrothed to Tyrek Lannister and Lord Randyll must allegedly betroth his Talla to Willem Lannister if he is to reclaim his ancestral sword, I imagine you shall both attend Lord Lancel's wedding in Casterly Rock to that Northern She-Bear. Kindly speak to him there, out of sight of the Iron Throne, of the wisdom of countering the Stark insult by moving closer to Highgarden."

"How exactly should I do that? T'is rumored that they want his Dickon betrothed to a Banefort lass as well; offering lashings more of Lannister goal as part of the dowry."

"As having a grandson who one day will rule Highgarden is more valuable than having a grandson that is merely the nephew to the Lord of Casterly Rock, I have complete faith in your wit, Lord Mathis, that some clever stratagem will come to you. Why else did my son chose you to be his Deputy to sit upon the King's new Small Council," she both praised and chided him. Though Mace had every confidence in Mathis Rowan; Garlan and Paxter and Gormon's presence in the Red Keep would ensure his devotion to Highgarden never faltered.

As Mathis Rowan nodded his head in understanding, an oafish facsimile of Mace, the porters' feet started shuffling as they entered the wide curve where an entrance for the main barracks of the Red Keep's defenders entered the stairs. A barracks not currently filled with content Gold Cloaks but with agitated, unpredictable Northmen and Riverlanders.

The smell of enemies and plots permeated the Queen of Thorns' nose.

* * *

"Beg pardon, Lady Tyrell, only members of the Small Council are permitted entry," a tall, lantern jawed, knight of apparent competence spoke firmly at the entrance to the hall; not in the least swayed by the presence of the even taller and more imposing pair of Arryk and Erryk.

"And you are?" she challenged.

"Ser Jacelyn Bywater, his Grace's Lord Commander of the Order of the Royal Stag, my lady," the middle-aged knight replied evenly.

The name was familiar, but taunted her memory as to whom he was until her discerning eye noticed the cast iron hand he sported at the end of his right arm. That clue cleared the cobwebs from her age addled brain. She now recognized him as the knight who had given the city gates to the Starks and, last she had heard, was merely the new Commander of the Gold Cloaks.

"That is quite a mouthful, Ser. And how many members are there in this esteemed Order that in all my many years I have never heard uttered of before?"

A wisp of a smile crossed his lips. "Only one at present, my lady."

"How impressive. You must be honored. Now allow your better through, Ser," she commanded, immediately judging him clever but not the sort inclined to budge without great cause.

"That I am not allowed, my lady."

"I believe my old eyes saw Lord Renly enter. Clearly there are exceptions, Ser; unless his Grace has created yet another new position on the Small Council. Groomer of the Stag? Dust Rag of the Iron Throne? Perhaps Lord of the Royal Privy?"

The wisp of a smile turned into an outright grin. "Lord Renly _is_ brother to the King."

"A remarkable relation, no doubt. And I am grandmother to the Hand, Mother to the Warden of the South, Aunt to the Master of Ships, and goodsister to the Grand Maester. None individually as impressive as that of Lord Renly's brother, I shall grant you, Ser. But those four close relations certainly add up to a sum more significant than one sibling, do they not?"

"Were the new Grand Maester present, I would gladly allow him entry to plead your cause to his Grace, my lady." And then this creature of the Starks meant to replace Barristan the Bold shrugged his shoulders.

"What seems to be the problem?" Mace inquired in his bullying lord's voice; done with whatever dilly-dallying had delayed him, Paxter, and Mathis Rowan in the outer yard.

"Our Lord Commander of the Order of … what was that again, Ser?"

"The Royal Stag."

"Yes, that was it, the Royal Stag … forbids me entry. Alas," she breezily declared, enjoying the little game.

"Here, here, Ser. This is Lady Olenna Tyrell, my mother. Best make way if you know what's best for you," Mace blustered.

"The Master of Ships may enter, my lord," this Bywater announced, bowing slightly towards Paxter. "As may the Warden of the South _and_ his deputy. None other."

"Haha, well played, Ser," the Queen of Thrones laughed, well pleased with the intelligence and flexibility of the Wolf's chosen man.

"What?" Mace asked in confusion, as her amusements frequently caused him to.

"Lord Mathis, be so kind as to go out and keep an eye on the likes of the Ambroses, Ashfords, Appletons, and their ilk."

"My lady?" the weathercock queried hesitantly.

"Mace, escort your mother and, for today, your Deputy Warden of the South into the Small Council Hall," she commanded; refusing to allow a boy to do a Great Lady's work.

Then, over Mathis Rowan's sudden incoherent spluttering, her old ears heard this Bywater declare, "Be welcome, Lady Tyrell. Lord Tyrell." She did not wait to allow her son to gather the courage or outrage to gainsay her and promptly hobbled forward through the doors to see how strongly the board arrayed against her.

* * *

" _Everything smells,_ " she decided. And it was neither the usual effluvia of King's Landing's gutters and sewers nor the heavier pallor of smoke that currently lay over the city and the keep, but the rank stupidity piled high within the Small Council Hall. Stannis Baratheon's eyes had widened briefly at her appearance in his council, but had said nothing at her intrusion. Olenna thus rewarded his rare display of equanimity by guarding her tongue; well knowing the traditional limits of a woman's counsel in a room full of pompous cocks.

"I simply can't see how I can be expected to depart King's Landing for Storm's End until all my banner lords are present and accounted for. They are pledged to me. As their liege, t'would be insulting and neglectful to place myself ahead of their safety," Renly Baratheon portrayed his patently false noble intentions for the fourth or fifth time.

"I did not realize your former host to the East so paltry as to fear the depredation of bandits, Lord Renly," the only lord present who equaled Olenna's great age harped snidely at the beaten brat's obvious delaying tactic.

"For a trifle of a favor, say a lady's scarf, my Northmen will gladly escort your maiden warriors to safety, Lord Renly," the young Wolf added with a light tone as a fig leaf over his scorn.

She found the slight of build youth with gleaming Tully red hair to be confident, but not overly boastful, until perhaps now. Not in the least what she would have expected of a mere pup who could thrash Randyll Tarly. Well, he and his uncle, the Blackfish.

"My Stormlanders fear neither bandits nor Northmen, Lord Robb," the spoiled child replied archly. "There are the injured. Ransoms to be paid. I must keep faith with my duty to them, Stannis. Surely, _you_ of all lords would understand _that_."

The King began grinding his teeth in ire at the ongoing farce. Stannis Baratheon had won and his younger brother had lost. From lord to lordingly to knight, both rebelling Kingdoms had bent the knee. And yet the spoiled child refused to fully recognize defeat; and in a tantrum seemed intent on tipping the game board over out of sheer spite.

The Tyrells too did not desire to withdrawal so quickly from King's Landing. But at least when it happened her house would remain a force on the board. Renly, while still heir to the crown, would leave no allies of significance behind when he departed for Storm's End; unless it might be his cousin Aemon Estermont, carrying the newfangled title of "Lord Ambassador of the Iron Throne" on the Small Council. At least with Loras' terrible injuries, Highgarden had a valid reason for a delay by direct family; though not of their men-at-arms or direct pledged banner lords.

"By the forbearance of the North and the Riverlands, ransoms for those captured from Lord Tarly's army have been waived, Lord Renly. My deaf old ears remember me saying that afore more than once. Shall Lord Robb send Ser Grey Wind of House DireStark over to clean your young, plugged ones?" The crotchety old crab of Claw Isle and Master of Coin to the realm threatened.

"He is welcome to try, Lord Ardrian," the younger Baratheon postured.

The Queen of Thorns suspected the brash Stag's response would have been more accommodating had the direwolf been present. Unfortunately, the young Stark had arrived at the Small Council with only crutches and a too diffident battleaxe of a North Lord. She much desired to see with her own eyes the creature that had laid Loras low. Or to know it had died of its wounds.

Pointless, stupid bickering continued. Enough was enough. She cared not a whit when the Stormlands' armies departed so long as Renly, and presumably Margaery with him, left soonest before he could pettily sow more chaos and leave Highgarden to reap the dark harvest. Or worse, be reaped themselves. The Queen of Thorns kicked Mace under the table.

Dull eyes looked at her.

Her own sharp ones purposefully darted daggers down at the purse on his belt.

"Oh," he mumbled, and then intentionally cleared his throat. Loudly.

"Yes, Lord Mace?" the King queried severely.

"I have a disposition for the return South by your Grace's Reach allies, if you would care to hear the … suggestion," her son posed with more delicacy than was his normal want.

Stannis Baratheon shifted in his chair and offered a terse nod to Garlan. A good sign that.

"Lord Tyrell, the King would deign to hear your proposal," the Hand announced formally to his father.

With a smile, the oaf pried the folded parchment out of the pouch, opened it, and began rattling off house names and dates spread out over the next three weeks.

Olenna only half listened, she knew the order of the list; having been in the room with Mace when it was drawn up. The Hightowers, being the most dangerous and with the furthest to travel, would depart first down the Roseroad; followed by the main body of Highgarden's forces. Tarly's horse would cross the Blackwater Rush with the aid of what Paxter as Master of Ships could gather and then head due south to meet with the Roseroad. The Oakhearts would travel west on the GoldRoad and then march cross country over the northern Reach, passing Goldengrove, to arrive at Old Oak. And Mathis Rowan's troops would leave last with the Florents. The other noble, but not as significant, houses would be released on an alternating every other schedule based on the perceived loyalty of each particular house's lord.

As Mace ran down the lengthy list, Olenna watched her grandson carefully; waiting until she could subtly catch his attention. With patience, it was accomplished. His eyes revealed little as the tiny, natural seeming gestures she put her aged hands and bent fingers through broadly spelled out in the hidden language she had taught all her grandchildren as youths what she desired of him. Garlan's littlest sword hand finger bobbed twice, slowly, in agreement.

"Will this suffice, your Grace?" her son asked the King when he finished.

"Lord Davos, do you foresee any problems sending the river galleys to transport Lord Tarly across the Blackwater Rush?"

"While I may be of some assistance, your Grace. Perhaps this matter be best addressed by Lord Redwyne," the lowborn Onion Knight politely contradicted the King.

Stannis Baratheon grimaced briefly. "My pardon, Lord Paxter; no slight of the Arbor or your position in my council was intended."

"None taken, your Grace. I will gladly investigate, and with Lord Davos aid, surely find a quick answer for you by the morrow. And we shall happily bring to Southwark any Stormlanders who would find a river trip less hazardous than a march," he added to poke a finger at Renly's obstinate figure.

"Lord Redwyne?" a voice piped up.

"Yes, my Lord Hand?" Paxter returned to his nephew.

"Kindly please also discover whether a vessel might be made ready on the morrow to sail for Storm's End."

This gained a startled exclamation from the spoiled child in the hall.

"My sister, the Lady Margaery _Baratheon_ , is in earnest to see her new home. She has heard ever so much about it from our brother and Lord Renly's former squire, Ser Loras. Alas, those were mere words, as colorful as a rainbow they were; and not nearly satisfying enough for a young woman's fancy. What say you, Lord Renly? Will you oblige my lady sister, your _wife_? Will you oblige a Hand of the King from House Tyrell?"

A mask of caution slowly slid over the foolish young stag's face. Had he truly no idea that he was utterly ally-less here? There was more to being king than appearing noble and smelling pretty.

The Queen of Thrones smiled to herself. Garlan had improvised her direction to best fit the moment and not hesitated in making the veiled threat against a goodbrother and Lord Paramount. There was more to being Hand than appearing noble and smelling pretty too. With a little time and experience, this grandchild of hers just might do. Then, when the _Stranger_ at last took her, she needn't worry about sending a boy to do a Great Lady's work; for there might be a man capable of doing it.


	3. Chapter 2 - Barristan

**Barristan**

 **June 25**

Even after several minutes into this most recent bout between them, Belwas' feet continued to move exceptionally lightly and quickly despite his significant size and girth. Where as Barristan, already feeling his age upon him, relied on long experience to strategically economize the effort of each movement, whilst showing the pit fighter only the slowly faltering speed expected from a tired, old man. Sweat dripped down his face into his scratchy, white beard to prove the point.

However, the eunuch was also technically skilled, despite the foolish penchant for allowing his opponents the first strike. And had sparred almost daily, some days two or three times, against the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms. So Belwas was not typically lulled by the usual tricks. Which did not mean that Ser Barristan ceased offering what his partner and potential rival had become used to anticipating from him.

No, not lulled in the least. The arakh stabbed out swiftly, but not quite accurately as usual. Whether purposefully or not, Barristan turned the blow aside; deflecting away the curved front of the other's blade with as minimal contact as he could with the deadly rippled steel of his dagger. Powerful though the strike had been, for everything Belwas did was with strength; he instinctively realized it to be unserious.

Then, confirming his suspicion that the attack was purposefully only a lure, the pit fighter pulled back his crude Essosi style blade a tad slower than normal. That factor, matched with how the bull strong eunuch's left hand held his pointlessly pie tin sized shield tantalizingly an inch lower than it should, determined in a split second the dismissed knight's course of action. Thus Barristan "took" the bait and swiped at the exposed, protruding, scarred belly of his opponent with his tourney short sword; but a tad slower as well.

"Bah," Belwas snorted contemptuously, effortlessly jerking up his tiny shield to powerfully smash the back of the dull tourney blade; sending it even faster along the path of its arc and closer in to its target, a dog's hair away from the eunuch's paunch.

Typically, Barristan would next crouch low in one of several possible defensive positions and raise his new dagger, or shield if he had been using it, in preparation for the predictable counterattack. Or simply have taken a step back, or two; for the other had a both a longer natural reach and today the longer blade. But repetition of tactics was a death knell for any swordsman when going against an extremely competent foe who had already trained regularly against you.

So instead, while watching the little shield approach his sword, Barristan had suddenly thrown his whole body behind what had been a sluggish maneuver; adding his own momentum into the impetus added by Belwas and nimbly used all that burst of speed to twirl himself to the outer possible edge of the arakh's return arc of attack. The dangerous revolution complete, with feet and balance still one, the dismissed knight automatically continued circling to the side of the pit fighter. However, now strictly fronting his foe; no longer offering a turning, gambeson only protected back as a target.

The skilled Essosi did not stay surprised for more than an instant before he too pivoted in order to also keep Barristan in front of him; the unseen blade being the deadliest. But the pit fighter hesitated with his arakh. The knight's positioning and ongoing movement to his left, Belwas' right, making the angle of attack awkward for a full blow; no matter the strength of the eunuch's thick wrist, whether he decided to chop right or left at Barristan.

This permitted the former Kingsguard to take advantage of his foe's brief vacillation and shift closer inside of the circle the two now danced in the smooth, well-kept grass of Magister Illyrio's garden.

At last a blow fell, keen bladed arakh meeting dull tourney blade. But the former Kingsguard did not now try to simply deflect, but actually parry the descending strike. Parried and held; causing Barristan to grunt from the powerful force of the contact.

Belwas eyes widened in startlement as the older warrior actively pushed back against the arakh; feet digging into the turf, pushing with all of his mass against the substantially larger foe. The eunuch smiled, knowing this was a struggle with only one inevitable conclusion.

The pit fighter shifted slightly to improve his balance and leverage; causing the committed mass of Barristan to lurch forward, closer. Even in the salad days of his youth, the Bold would lose a battle of strength against this Essosi. Regardless, he struggled to press closer; sword arm wobbling from the strain.

"Your time is finished, whitebeard," Belwas chortled, feeling the dismissed knight's back beginning to bend against his might.

"Not before I add another scratch to your belly," He wheezed with heavy breath.

"You had your chance, squire," the big eunuch declared.

And Barristan felt through the tension of their joined bodies, rather than saw, the pit fighter swing his shield hand at the dismissed knight's sword shoulder. He relaxed part of his body in anticipation of the blow; allowing the tourney blade and arakh to drop, almost touching the hair atop his unshod head.

THWACK!

Barristan flew through the air and landed ten feet away, automatically rolling on contact with the earth to dissipate the force placed on his body.

Belwas immediately charged after him to finish the bout.

Coming to rest on his back, the former Kingsguard did not bother to raise in defense the tourney short sword he still happened to hold on to.

The curved blade of his opponent whistled remorselessly through the air at his chest. And at the last minute the terribly strong eunuch pulled up on the blow; rendering yet another tear in Barristan's well battered gambeson.

"Foolish squire dies again," Belwas declared happily, sweat dripping down the nut-brown skin of his bald pate and smooth, hairless cheeks.

"And so too does my overconfident pit fighter from Meereen," shouted the oily, jovial voice of their host. The fat Pentosi merchant prince had watched the entirety of the bout from a wide marble bench that his exceedingly ample buttocks threatened to overflow. A bench that had been intentionally moved there when this spot in his vast manse's garden had been chosen over a month ago as the designated training ground for the odd matched pair.

"What!?" bellowed Belwas in outrage at the challenge to his "victory."

"Check your belt, my mighty friend," answered their patron.

The cheery, gapped tooth face peered quizzically over a broad chest and past a wide belly to the top of the baggy silk pants he perpetually wore. His blunt, suntanned visage, immediately darkened. "Balls!" the eunuch bellowed angrily. "Son of a Harpy!" the pit fighter swore bitterly.

For slid between pajama and the tied clothe band that kept them from falling off his thick arse, perched Ser Barristan's Valyrian dagger; sneaked through a loop of the pants, neat as could be.

"Whitebeard did not scratch me," he next complained loudly. Then, a sly grin began to gather on his pudgy phyz. "He missed. Too clever old knight. Where is the blood? No new scar for Belwas." He patted his belly, then yapped like a disgruntled tiny dog, "I win, I say."

"Yes, as Master Belwas says, victory is his," Barristan agreed drily. Then added, "For a mere squire should never shed the blood of his noble master."

The pit fighter snarled at the verbal blow and, in response, angrily snatched out the priceless knife from its impromptu sheath and fired it into the thick turf beside the dismissed knight's head. "I am thirsty and hungry," he barked and stalked off to go wander the garden in search of who knew what; intentionally ignoring both Barristan and Illyrio Mopatis in his snit.

"Magnificent, my bold friend" proclaimed the magister. "You move as lithely as I still do in my memories of my swaggering bravo youth." He then sighed and his stare wandered off; pretending to follow the receding figure of Belwas.

Barristan did not feel so lithe as he rolled to his knees from his sword shoulder side; the off shoulder clobbered by Belwas ached too much for him to go to that way. Regardless the discomfort, he used that arm to slip the priceless dagger out of the turf, carefully clean the grit off it on his gambeson, and tenderly place the alluring Valyrian steel into the plain sheath on his belt. Then he climbed to his feet, feeling each and every one of his three score and two name days.

"Not nimbly enough, I fear, Magister Mopatis. Master Belwas is a better fighter than I; that leaves me only cunning and tricks and luck to defeat him."

The grossly fat merchant's small, pinkish eyes seemed to crinkle in doubt or amusement; Barristan could not be sure which due to the distance between the men, the sharpness of his vision was yet another thing that age was slowly robbing him of.

"A _better_ fighter? A "bold," if perhaps not entirely honest, declaration to make my friend; especially from one who dares face my champion wearing nothing more than a horse hair padded linen jacket," the obese merchant challenged him with both sly amusement and the same type of understated doubt that Barristan had just levied against Belwas.

He felt the barb strike against the armor of his knightly vows; however, since Joffrey Hill had unjustly usurped him from his position and the Spider had offered him an alternate path to reclaim his honor, Barristan Selmy had learned new, uncomfortable lessons about honesty.

"Aye, better. You watch us when your affairs do not press, my lord magister. Your eye is a fair well trained one. Master Belwas defeats me more often than he loses. He is a fearsome opponent," the dismissed knight stated firmly, holding on to the bare kernel of truth in the words, as he stepped closer to better observe his patron.

The thickly bejeweled fingers of one of Illyrio Mopatis' hands fondly stroked for a moment one tine of his yellow dyed, forked beard as he clearly pondered a response. Then, "And were you to wear mail or plate?"

"And swing a truly edged sword?" Barristan added to discretely muddy the question. "Then we would be closer matched," he allowed, not outright stating which would be the better.

"Ah-ha," the merchant prince smiled in triumph.

"But then your champion would no longer hold back with his arakh or his strength. And blood would be shed unnecessarily between your servants whom you intend to work closely together. So instead, each day we match his tempered might and untampered speed against my years of knowledge. Alas, Master Belwas is far from unskilled. I will not try today's maneuver against him again," Barristan explained, without also stating that with time, or with a few more stones of weight, the eunuch's current advantages against him would be rendered moot.

"Unless as a feint," Illyrio Mopatis suggested craftily.

The dismissed knight smiled back at the suspicious, clever "Cheese Lord," as Tywin Lannister would once have referred to the likes of his new, unusual Pentosi patron. The Lord of Casterly Rock being yet another from his many years who now walked with the _Stranger_ , whether in Seven Heavens or Seven Hells he was not to judge. "As you say, 'unless as a feint,'" he agreed casually.

"Which Belwas might suspect to be a feint," the former bravo pointed out, demonstrating a keen grasp of a tactics; in battle, and likely elsewhere too.

This confirmed yet again for Barristan of the need for not duplicity exactly, but a less than full honesty in all things Essosi. "Indeed. Your champion is experienced, though brash. And I know only so many stratagems, or tricks, if you will, Magister Mopatis. The effectiveness of each depends upon any given moment as it unfolds."

A far way look again shone briefly on that jowly face. "Yes, that is true about much in life, my bold friend. So if you will excuse me, affairs have come to my attention that I must attend to." And the man raised his ponderous bulk up off the sturdy stone bench.

The dismissed knight bowed politely to the obese man whom he temporarily served.

"Dine with me tonight, good Ser," the merchant prince more commanded than asked.

The remembered smells and tastes of a wide hue of rich, exotic dishes, most better avoided by his palate, promptly filled his senses. The former Kingsguard presented a smile that nearly a lifelong of training in the Red Keep had taught him. "Gladly, my lord Magister," he answered.

* * *

The pair did not walk together out of the garden and into the mansion. Illyrio Mopatis had instead waddled off in the direction of the unguarded, locked door hidden in the ivy that creeped up that part of the manse's sturdy exterior wall. Undoubtedly a palanquin or some other sort of litter awaited outside to carry him to some magisterial duty or "Cheese Lord" business or conspiracy.

Barristan used the solitude as he headed towards his too fancy suite to relive and assess each move and decision made not just by himself, but by the pit fighter as well. He searched his memory for signs of the eunuch holding back aside from the usual offering up of his heavily scarred belly to receive the first stroke. While skilled, Belwas fighting style mostly matched his personality: aggressive with little subtlety.

Though that did not necessarily mean the dangerous eunuch wasn't shamming with any one of a score of tendencies the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had detected in the pit fighter; just that Barristan had failed to detect it. Constant vigilance had been the motto of him and his former true brethren; also now all dead over a decade. Still, he desperately hoped he would never have cause to face Belwas across blades in mortal earnest. But experience and bitter disappointed had taught him hopes too oft disappeared like words in the wind; leaving only duty to cling to.

So in case of the eventuality, the dismissed knight only showed as much of his skills as was expected for a man of his reputation and years. He played to his perceived strengths. Falling for some of the pit fighter's tricks, but not all. Never falling for the same trick twice. And showing slow "improvement" to assuage any possible suspicion of a pretense on his part.

A feminine figure wearing a gossamer thin shift that did very little to hide her charms stepped out of the alcove in the upper hallway near the entrance to his rooms. "Would my Lord care for a bath," the blonde haired servant politely inquired as she always did after each of his sessions.

The ache in his shield shoulder continued, as did the weariness in his bones, so his answer was more enthusiastic than was his normal want to the expected offer. "I would, Tysha." It had been over a month since he had last tried to chastise her for addressing him as "my Lord."

She smiled demurely and crossed over to open the nearest door for him.

Steam already filled the room from the large marble bath built into and above the mosaic tiled floor depicting what seemed the whole range of the Seven's mortal sins.

The former slave, bought to slake Viserys Targaryen's lusts, lowered her eyes to a depiction of a glutton feasting on fowl and mead so that the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard could maintain his modesty as he stripped off his sweat soaked clothes. He folded them neatly and placed them on a stool; the simple leather belt with its accompanying plain sheath atop the pile.

Then he stepped into the tub and lowered his body into the hot water, suppressing a groan as the heat immediately enfolded bruised flesh and sore muscles.

Without prompting, the girl who barely came up to his shoulders loomed over him and stepped into the water as well. He turned his back to her and set his gaze upon the ivory gilded hilt of his Valyrian dagger.

Water cascaded over his head and then he felt her feather light touch massaging shampoo into his white hair, shoulder length for the first time since he could count in his name days in single digits. More water and the tiniest of stings in his eyes as the scented cleanser was sluiced away. He barely blinked, keeping his concentration fixed on the priceless gift.

The stiff bristles of the brush followed. First his back. Then he separately raised each arm unbidden so that she might decadently clean each pit. After, Barristan felt the modest weight of her breasts through the now soaked shift press into his back as she leaned over him to scour his chest and abdomen. Her hair settled over part of his face in doing so. She smelled of lavender.

Wordlessly, Tysha next passed over the brush to him. Though he permitted her a wide degree of Essosi decadence in serving him, there were limits to what he would allow her to do. The dismissed knight and only the dismissed knight would scrub clean his own legs and groin. What was and was not permissible had taken some weeks to work out between the two.

"You are tight," she murmured in near accent less common speech as she began kneading the tight, sore muscles of his shoulders and upper back. The heat and steam had loosened his flesh sufficiently that her small hands might begin to work again upon him.

This time he did groan, though his eyes continued to focus his thoughts on that one spot outside the bath. If he had once been attracted to Tysha, despite her in all but name slave status, the shame he felt - in learning over time - of the … the … unspeakable acts that the Prince, the reason the girl spoke Westeros' tongue, had subjected her too … well that had ended it.

And had almost ended his plotting with the disreputable Magister. The dismissed knight had sought a King worthy of following. Viserys Targaryen may have been a Prince by birth, but apparently nothing more. Word of the young dragon's murder had forestalled his decision. That and the words he remembered Tysha speaking of a quietly strong Princess. Though one shamefully married to a barbarian warlord who would slay his own goodbrother.

"My lord?"

Barristan's eyes blinked open in surprise. Had he fallen asleep? Her hands were no longer caressing him. A quick shifting of his eyes and a sweep of the room with his ears identified nothing amiss. "Yes, Tysha?"

"Do you desire anything more?"

"No. I am to dine with the Magister this evening."

"Clothes have been laid on your bed," she replied.

"Then I shall withdrawal," he announced.

The water sloshed around as she stood up and stepped out first in order to retrieve a robe for him. He refused to shift his gaze, knowing full well that her wet shift would render her naked to his view. When he heard the slapping of her feet approach on the tiles, he too stood and exited the bath.

Water dripped down his body. He looked at his thighs, still strong and firm; but lacking the familiar calluses. It had been near six months since he'd last ridden a horse. Illyrio Mopatis' manse offered many pleasing amenities for a gaol; alas, not mounts. He held out his arms and Tysha slipped a soft black and red patterned cotton robe up one arm and then over his back and up the other.

He tied the sash about his waist to complete the hiding of his nudity.

"My thanks, Tysha," he said brusquely without looking at her; moving to pick up his belt and dagger from the stool. Barristan knew she would see to the laundering and mending of his training clothes. He would find them, or those identical to them, laid out when he awoke in the morning.

"My lord," she answered softly in acknowledgement; not being the one for whom he would break vows he was becoming less certain held meaning for him.

* * *

In his checkered robe, the dismissed knight had watched the sun lengthen and set as he stood by the window in his room that overlooked the vain testament to the magister's memory of his "swaggering bravo youth." The painted marble statue that stood in the middle of a marble pool was of a beautiful, well defined naked youth holding a blade in the Essosi style. It was as fine as any work he had ever recalled seeing in King's Landing or any of the great houses his travels with the Kingsguard had taken him.

Standing with bare feet rooted in a luxurious Myrish rug, Barristan's gaze had primarily watched out over the top of the twelve foot high, spiked walls that marked the limit of his world the last five months. Beyond sat the tiled roofs of the "Free" City of Pentos, her port, a plethora of ships coming and going, and the rough waters of the Narrow Sea. Frequently his fingers strayed to the hilt of the dagger.

Momentous events had occurred in Westeros. Were still occurring. Events he had taken no part in. Events that as Illyrio told him of in dribs and drabs had forced him to question … to question … what? Many thoughts itched at the armor of his patience. His course was set.

At some point during his contemplative, silent observation, the Unsullied who guarded the immense manse had opened the main gate to allow in a covered litter carried by an octet of well-muscled servants. He had trained against the eunuch soldiers before Belwas, yet another eunuch, arrived. They made adequate men-at-arms for "former" slaves. " _By our treaty with Braavos, made before I sprouted from my mother's womb, slavery is outlawed in Pentos, my bold friend_ ," the magister had early on happily explained the way of the manse; accompanied by that disingenuous smile of his.

From the palanquin, Illyrio Mopatis had alit deftly despite his girth. Gone was the waddle. Due to the distance, Barristan had been unable to discern the state of the man's face, but there had been no doubting the purpose and energy in his stride. His patron had not come from mere cheese mongering business.

So, much as he had done when spying a bird enter Grand Maester Pycelle's rookery, the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had continued to wait patiently in the growing dark for the summons.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Yes," he called out.

"Squire Arstan, the Magister kindly wishes you to join him for dinner," came the junior steward's request in Pentosi; though Barristan knew the man spoke the common tongue, as did many other of the servants.

"I shall attend him shortly, once I dress," the dismissed knight acknowledged.

"Very good."

He stepped away from the window and went to the bed where the too rich dress had lain untouched since his return from the bath.

Off came the red and black checkered robe. On he slipped soft smallclothes, a pair of close fitting dark crimson breeches sporting a narrow ebon bar up each outer pant seem, a deep green velvet tunic festooned with flowery silk embroidery, and a pair of fine suede boots.

Lastly, he wrapped his plain leather belt to secure the expensive ensemble about the still spare form of the simple knight at heart within; bearing only a dagger with which to protect his honor.

* * *

Barristan chewed appreciatively on the delightful thyme and sage herbed grouse leg. The aged cooks for the Cheese Lord set an excellent table for their master. Each course was as delicious as the next. And his patron imbibed with gusto the succulent offerings to his appetite. As did the unexpected third member of their party, Master Belwas; who gorged himself as if in battle with the contents of every plate placed before him.

For all his prodigious physical talents and formidable skills, the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had quickly realized upon first meeting the eunuch that the pit fighter's prime could not last much longer. He had seen this type before; one who burned the candle at both ends – like Robert Baratheon. Drink and weight would catch up to him before age did, eroding precious skills. Still sufficient to kill most opponents, but no longer among the elite.

His platter wiped clean of his foe, the eunuch brought the overlarge carafe given him to his mouth.

"Are you still finding Tysha satisfactory, my bold friend?" his patron inquired, having himself just removed and swallowed the meat from a drumstick in one gone; leaving his lips shiny with juice and grease.

Belwas, sitting opposite Barristan at the well-stocked table, let loose a grape laden belch; earning a smile from Illyrio Mopatis.

"She is an able servant, my lord magister. I have no complaints."

"Just so. I ask since you will soon find her charms unavailable to you. That is, if the desire remains in your heart to discover whether Daenerys Targaryen is worthy of being Westeros' Queen?"

That question explained much of the magister's behavior that day and Belwas presence at dinner. "There is word of the Princess?" he asked with some eagerness.

That familiar knowing smile spread across shiny lips. "There is. And more. Much more," Illyrio Mopatis announced, evidently well pleased. Grouse smeared fingers automatically rising up to stroke one tine of Cheese Monger's equally greasy forked beard.

The dismissed knight let out a small breath he had not realized he was holding in. "Alive," he husked. Word of Khal Drogo's death and the chaotic dispersal of his khalasar on the Dothraki Sea had reached Pentos three months ago. With no word of what had become Daenerys Stormborn. "Where?"

"Qarth."

"Not Vaes Dothrak," he drawled. As he had best hoped aloud in all his conversations with his patron once the Cheese Lord's factors had reported the princesses' disappearence.

"Bah, merchants and warlocks. No real fighters worth a piss," Belwas announced contemptuously; then reached for the mound of steamed crabs on the table to commence his next battle.

"And reachable by one of my ships, if you are still amenable, my bold friend."

Barristan's eyebrows raised in slight confusion. "Why would I not? How soon can Master Belwas and I depart?" Part of his eagerness was the thought of ending his imprisonment, though a several months voyage across the Summer Sea in a boat offered its own challenges.

"Why might Squire Arstan not wish to journey to Qarth? I do happen to have a sweet little, fast two masted carrack in port at this very moment. Just so."

The former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had never excelled at intrigue and deception. But he had by force come to have some experience with it. "There is also word from King's Landing," he guessed.

"Without a battle, before the lords of the Reach and the Stormlands, Renly Baratheon has bent the knee to his brother. Stannis Baratheon, for now, sits the Iron Throne … alone, my bold friend. Perhaps you might return and resume your old place?" his patron suggested coyly.

"No," he answered firmly, despite his surprise. While the truth of the proclamation of the civil war's end might prove suspect, the question was undoubtedly a trap. Any other response would not see him live out the night; either slain honorably by blades hopefully not in the back or vilely from poison. He might have already ingested one with his meal. "I gave my word to serve the true Royal family of Westeros. Not the usurper House of Baratheon. I defiled myself by not joining my loyal brothers in SevenHeavens. Daenerys Targaryen is all that is left for my redemption."

The oily, knowing smile never left Illyrio Mopatis face. "Just so." And then, a fat, ham hock of an arm lifted up to point a pudgy, be-ringed pointer finger towards the dismissed knight's midriff. "Yet, you still carry Stannis Baratheon's gift by your side."

Barristan's hand slipped down to touch the hilt of the Valyrian dagger he wore. "My lord magister, two and half month's ago, at your gate, I refused the offer to return as Lord Commander that Ser Wendel Manderly made on behalf of Stannis Baratheon. My mind has not changed since. My course is set. I am pledged to the princess if she will deign to have me. As a Queensguard, an advisor, or the humblest of her servants; so long as breath issues from my lungs," he declared righteously.

"Well spoken. And that steel?" the Cheese Lord repeated; testing still the strength of the dismissed knight's words.

"Reward for fifteen year's honest service given House Baratheon in a dishonorable cause. And for the slur cast by them and their factors on my honor," he said. "I will return to the Seven Kingdoms with Daenerys Targaryen or never at all. My oath upon it, my lord magister."

Illyrio Mopatis lifted up a goblet. "A toast then. To oaths and to the honor of Squire Arstan Whitebeard."

Master Belwas and he both raised up their wine in response. "To oaths," the dismissed knight concurred. "To my squire," the pit fighter said with amusement.

Wine drunk, Barristan promptly addressed the glaring problem with the timing of the Princess' discovery. "My lord magister, with Stannis Baratheon acclaimed king in full. There is no longer open discord amongst the Seven Kingdoms for the Princess to step into as a savior. You've made fleeting mention of an army for her use. And any Dothraki would never follow a woman war lord, let alone across the sea. How long must we abide in Qarth?" he queried deliberately, as thrones were not won on wishes or dreams.

"Haha, just so. There is bold, and then there is foolhardy. Is that not right, my honorable friend?" Illyrio Mopatis chuckled condescendingly. "In Qarth? A month? Longer, if the Pureborn, the Spicers, the Thirteen, the Brotherhood, and the Undying do not prove too rapacious for that which they must not be allowed to grasp. There lies your duty. Haha."

Barristan's heart beat faster at the implied threat. His eyebrows hunched and his eyes drew up hooded. "Should we return here?" the dismissed knight tentatively asked.

"Perhaps. Eventually. Queen's, if such she proves - and I believe she will, haha - are not told where to go and what to do; but are politely guided by leal, sage advisors. That is your duty. She may sail the Summer Sea for a year or two; spreading her legend. When the time is right, I shall ensure an army is ready for her; and do my humble best to see the Seven Kingdom's splintering. Aegon faced worst odds than his scion Daenerys will. Trust me, my bold friend. Haha. Just so. Trust me."

'Aegon?' Barristan swallowed hard, caught between belief and disbelief. "I do not comprehend what pleases you so, my lord magister."

"And why should you? You have not spoken to the _Night Swallow's_ captain, nor his mates. A white-blonde haired woman child came out of the Red Wastes with more than just a small Dothraki escort. No, hahah. She brought with her the newborn fruit of the stony gifts I gave her for marrying Khal Drogo. Little did I suspect. Oh the Gods delight in resetting the finest webs that man lays." Fat, sweaty hands and pudgy fingers clapped together in joy.

"Stop speaking in riddles, fat man," Belwas growled.

"Dragons, my friends, Dragons. For the first time in near two hundred years, such beasts now live upon the world. We must let them grow large enough to aid our purpose. And then Westeros shall kneel before Daenerys Targaryen's; for our Dragon bore three heads."

* * *

Tysha did not greet him when he returned to his rooms, but the signs of her were about in the lit candles, the already packed travel bags, and the sailor style clothes laid upon his bed for the morrow. An omen that his patron had in fact believed all along that the dismissed knight would stay the course? Or subterfuge to lull the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard into a false sense of security before death's stealthy visit?

He would miss her. But not in the way most men would. He was beyond that; no longer having to pretend to hide his desires as he had done in his youth. Only hiding his modesty as his vows required.

However, he would not miss Magister Illyrio Mopatis. Any friend of Varys the Spider was suspect, no matter the nobility of the cause. And greed and spite oozed out of that one as readily as wine vapors did from a cheap Flea Bottom sot.

Again, he strode up to the windows, now shuttered against the night. He cracked them open to reveal the eerie combination of silvery Moon mixed with the crimson glow of the Red Comet reflected upon the shinier bits of the now heavily shadowed statue. The next part of his journey would commence in the light of the sun, when the tide went out into the Bay of Pentos and the Cheese Lord's merchant ship departed with valuable wears and two passengers.

Barristan Selmy, knighted by King Aegon after unhorsing Ser Duncan the Tall, slayer of Maelys Blackfyre, and bestowed the white cloak by King Jaehaerys to the Kingsguard under Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower, would not make the same mistakes again.

Wondrous times. Frightening times. A time for all knights to do their duty or die trying.

With aged, but sure hands, Barristan Selmy slipped his priceless Valyrian dagger out of its simple, unadorned sheath. His fingers pressed down on two small opals embedded either side of the hilt just below the slender crossguard. A minute click barely audible in the silent room. And a firm twist removed the bottom of the pommel.

A tiny parchment scroll fell into his other, waiting hand. Bringing back memories of the day he received it.

" _Ser Barristan, t'is my honor to see you again, Ser. T'was not easy to gain an audience with you," the portly Northern Knight said with both pleasure and relief upon approaching the postern opened in the gate. "The city watch was getting right uncomfortable with our daily shows outside this magister's palace."_

" _Ser Wendel. I had believed it near impossible to have been found at all," Ser Barristan replied emphatically from within the shadow cast by the gatehouse. With Stannis Baratheon having claimed the Iron Throne by force of arms from Cersei Lannister's reputed bastards, the Prince and the other magisters of Pentos had been loath to make any aggressive moves against the new King's emissary; thus his patron had relented to allow this meeting._

" _Haha, that might be so, Ser," the Manderly scion agreed jovially with a knowing grin. Then, much more softly, the knight added, "Blessed Lord Eddard knew where to find you."_

" _Blessed?" Varys had already smuggled the dismissed knight away from King's Landing by the time of the execution, but word of the deed had spread rapidly across the Spider's web to the magister's manse. As it had later with news of the unlamented eunuch's death. "Pentos has of course heard the rumors of Lord Stark's unusual return. Difficult to accept, Ser," he allowed with a generous voice; politely not wanting to imply the upright knight he had known slightly from the Greyjoy Rebellion a liar._

" _But true, Ser. My honor upon it," the man promptly countered earnestly. "Lord Eddard says the Old God's magic brought him back. Gave him visions. Provided justice for his family. And put the true King on the Iron Throne. Aye, Lord Eddard must be as blessed as King Baelor e'er was," the believer in the Seven near blasphemed._

" _Yet while they cared enough to return Lord Stark his head; they seem uninterested in his hand," Barristan skeptically pointed out._

 _Wendel Manderly's answering scowl was only partially hidden by either his heavy jowls or his thick, droopy mustache. "No," the knight unhappily agreed. "What I would give to have been there to aide my lord against the Kingslayer and not at Dragonstone. But his Grace and Lord Stark entrusted me with several vital missions, Ser." And the stout Northman nodded conspiratorially at Barristan._

" _Then kindly relay me the message that you requested this parley for, Ser Wendel," he asked politely._

" _Well there is a royal parchment for you, Ser Barristan, from King Stannis. If you will allow me?" The warrior cum herald gestured towards a pouch hanging off the belt around his wide midriff._

 _Though two parts of the clothe bulged out with the suggestion of something heavy, Ser Barristan did not believe the knight to have hidden a weapon upon himself. "Please."_

 _The bald head bobbed once in acknowledgement as a hand promptly went fumbling to first untie and then search inside the modest sack for the missif. "Not that it will be any secret, but his Grace greatly desires your return as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. As Lord Eddard says, Ser, you lend honor to any man you serve. Ah, here it is." And he passed it over; declaring, "Sigil untouched."_

 _The wax seal did have the proper shape of the Baratheon crowned stag molded into it._

" _Shall I open it now Ser? And provide you my answer. Or am I permitted to ponder my decision?" the dismissed knight asked. Either way, he knew what his answer would be. And his patron would naturally insist on being shown the words meant to sway him from his course._

" _Oh, definitely wait until the morrow, if you would, Ser Barristan. More time for you to appreciate the gift that Lord Eddard has also sent along with the words of the King."_

 _Barristan's eyes narrowed dangerously and he bit is tongue lest he speak injudiciously. He little liked the suggestion that he might be bribed. Not by noble Eddard Stark. And certainly not by some imposter pretending to be the Lord of Winterfell._

" _Here it is," the knight announced; pulling something else out of the pouch._

 _The former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard blinked in surprise. He recognized the blade, a Valyrian steel dagger from Robert Baratheon's personal armory._

 _Ser Wendel leaned in close in handing the priceless gift over. "My lord hopes you say no to his Grace's offer. There is a message from him hidden within the pommel," the Northman said in a whisper. "Press the opals and twist."_

As Barristan unrolled again the small parchment bearing even tinier script on both front back, he stepped next to the closest candle in order to see the miniscule words. Now, with the revelation about Daenerys Targaryen, the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard meant to read each and every word again; though he had near memorized them already.

 **Ser Barristan,**

 **Whether you wish to believe it or not, I am returned. A time of miracles and magic and horrors not seen since the Age of Heroes now descends upon Westeros; and every man of virtue has a duty in fighting to keep the coming evil at bay. All I ask is that you read these words and then act as your honorable conscience directs you.**

 **The vile Prince Viserys, whom Varys and Illyrio Mopatis desired you to serve, is dead by the hand of the very Dothraki he hoped would aid him gain the Iron Throne. However, the young girl that all, except you and I, on the Small Council bid be assassinated yet lives; though her Khal is now too dead. Mopatis is waiting for news from his spies of Daenerys Targaryen's appearance. And when he hears of the her presence in Qarth, the magister shall send you and a eunuch pit fighter named Belwas east to protect her and guide the Princess back to Westeros.**

 **How do I know of her and Qarth and Belwas? In resurrecting me, the Old Gods granted me many visions of the past, present, and future. Thus I know of the Long Night looming beyond the Wall that threatens all of the Seven Kingdoms with a Winter that never ends. Yes, I speak of the Others. They have begun stirring; reanimating dead beasts and giants and Wildlings into an army of wight minions.**

 **Madness, you say? Perhaps you will believe me when word of the Princess is also accompanied by the revelation that she comes with three new hatched dragons which she birthed on Khal Drogo's pyre. Go to Qarth, Ser Barristan. Protect Daenerys. Many will seek to kill her for her winged children. Teach her of nobility and duty. And bring her back to Westeros. Bring her to the North. Bring her to the Wall.**

 **The return of both dragons and Others cannot be a coincidence, Ser. A great battle of Good versus Evil is brewing. And the Light needs all the warriors that can be mustered to defeat the Dark. That is why I strive diligently to impose Stannis Baratheon rule over the Seven Kingdoms. You know him, he will not shirk this duty.**

 **Daenerys Stormborn can also be such a noble warrior in the defense of the realm; of life itself. To aid her I shall do my utmost to provide ships and gold for her return in New Ghis. The Lord of Winterfell promises that regardless the outcome, the Princess shall find a haven in the North.**

 **Whether you believe my visions or not. Whether I live or die serving his Grace. Whether Renly or Stannis Baratheon sits the Iron Throne. These things matter little, Ser. Bring the Princess home. Do not tarry. The realm needs her and her dragons, for Winter is Coming.**

 **Eddard Stark**

Yet again the dismissed knight was tempted, as had long been, to dip the small parchment into the flame. To burn the evidence of the course he had finally committed himself to. Instead, he rolled the scroll tight and slipped it back inside his dagger. A Princess would need more than just the word of an oath breaker seeking redemption.


	4. Chapter 3 - Qyburn

**Qyburn**

 **June 26**

Fine weather lay over King's Landing as Qyburn stood patiently on the gravel of the oddly named "Lower" Bailey waiting for his curious lord to appear. The dark clouds and smoke of the last ten days had finally blown out to sea; though the fetid miasma of the masses gathered for the final distribution of the spoils from King Stannis' clever victory in the most recent Game of Thrones still hovered indolently in the air.

The greying, unremarkable seeming man adjusted his equally non-descript grey wool robes to account for the bright sun and heat that reflected off the keep's giant blocks of pale red granite. While the solstice had occurred only four days earlier, normally indicating the start of High Summer, his former colleagues at the Citadel had five months before released their white ravens o'er all Westeros to announce the commencement of autumn.

However, it remained to be seen whether the Archmaesters had correctly assessed the signs, for warmth still lingered in the air. Which, to Qyburn, suggested an unusually long changing of the season into Winter at the least; or, perhaps, the coming of a short Winter. That, of course, ran contrary to common wisdom and old wifes' tales which unlearnedly spoke of brutally harsh, unyielding Winters – near matching the Long Night itself – as the natural consequence to a Summer of a decade or more in years.

And there was no doubt that the just ended summer had been the longest in living memory. Longer even than the eight year one recorded during the dozen year reign of Maekar. And equal to the one during which Harwyn Hoare and his horde of ironborn erupted into the Riverlands; not to reave, but to conquer.

However, Qyburn knew that the seasons, much like fate, were fickle things. The Citadel taught it best to account for all eventualities. And so he was; better, in fact, than those who had first trained him. Thanks mostly to the ruthless yet enlightening circumstances he had been forced to exist under since the short sighted, ignorant revocation of his sinecure.

The entrance door to the White Sword Tower, neither colored nor shaped as it name implied, opened to interrupt his musings. Out of it strode his current and possibly future patron or eventual executioner; the final distribution of Qyburn's share of the spoils not yet having been decided and allotted. The lord upon whom his fate was intertwined appeared as non-descript as the former maester himself. Even more so with his modest height, slender build, and placid face; except for his rich clothing, near bloodless complexion, and those startling moon milk white eyes. He was as penetrating and formidable and deadly a man as Qyburn had ever met, let alone directly served.

The pale man and his escort of loyal men-at-arms walked straight past without acknowledging him; heading straight towards the serpentine steps that would take them to the Maidenvault and the sickbed of the curious patient. Qyburn promptly pivoted and stepped quickly with his longer legs to come apace of the lord. An infraction demanding payment in pain and blood for most any other commoner but himself.

As they proceeded, there was no mention of whether Qyburn carried the necessary surgical instruments, healing nostrums, leeches, numbing tinctures, and enchanted elixirs. Nor breath wasted where others might overhear of what was intended once they arrived at their destination. All had been planned out ahead of time. Roose Bolton was a carefully daring lord who suffered no fools unless forced to by uncontrolled circumstances.

"What news?" the lord spoke, at last deigning to break the silence; quiet voice barely breaking above the sound of tromping, thudding boots.

"The Lady Serena has chosen an establishment, my lord," he said, voice modulating as they briskly descended the wide spaced stairs from the higher situated, and thus misnamed, Lower Bailey down to the Middle Bailey.

"Is it suitable for my needs?"

"There is a well-hidden, deep passage from the brothel beneath the Hook to a modest warehouse that has a secret door into the stable it shares a back wall with. All buildings once owned by the late Master of Coin."

"Are these properties listed on records that Lord Celtigar has access to?"

"None that I am aware of," Qyburn answered; however, the words he chose to accent in his answer clearly indicated his knowledge on the matter was far from infallible.

The preternaturally soft-spoken lord remained mute a moment as he assessed the information provided. Then, "And is she satisfied?"

"I believe so, my Lord. The Street of Silks is a desirable locale with many shops of fineries to capture the _lady's_ interest." While undoubtedly true, Shae was an imminently practical whore and had readily taken his recommendation on which site would best serve their mutual lord's needs best. Both practical and clever enough to not bother asking him to relay some pointless message of how she missed her lord and craved his presence.

The Queen's murder had made the maintenance of the lovely "Lady" Serena in quarters so close to Maegor's Holdfast and the King's moody, wrathful temperament quite untenable. The remnant Freys, though never worried about the status of the betrothal, seemed appreciative of the improvement in their goodbrother-to-be's outward proprieties as well. While Walda continued as oblivious as ever in her devotions to her "sweet Lord" intentionally or not; Qyburn had yet to decide.

"Waydin?" Roose Bolton quietly inquired next.

"So long as the silver flows, the sellsword is content," Qyburn responded; not venturing a guess as to how long that contentment might last. The revelation the previous month that "Blessed Ned" did not recognize any of the trio whom his factors once diligently sought had weakened Roose Bolton's hold over them. Qyburn did not doubt for an instant that the pale man beside whom he walked frequently made similar calculations about the loyalties of the disguised Bronn ... or the whore … or of a certain former Maester.

Thus, he decided it time to open his own negotiation towards an understanding of his own situation. "Lord Stark's possible continued scrutiny and the long journey to the North enthuses Waydin little."

The confident lord chuckled softly, recognizing the foray. "And what of you … Ebrose? Shall I release you from my service when I depart? Or will you become the Dreadfort's hidden envoy to the Iron Throne?"

Either choose was heavily laden with danger; not that death greatly bothered the greying man who had long ago lost his chain for investigating the wonders of both corpses and living bodies … as well as dabbling in the mysteries of the dark arts and blood magic. That he had survived riding with the likes of Vargo Hoat and the Brave Companions barely registered on the self-assessment of his courage. The inevitable accompanying pain of such an outcome, while it lasted, would be … unfortunate.

"Neither, my lord. Lord Stark's poppy induced ramblings have crafted within me a strong desire to see the North." Wights and Wargs. Others and Dragons and George. How could the superior mind not be driven to discover the possible germ of truth behind it? "While death is the final adventure, perhaps until then you might find a position for me in your House's seat?"

"Your offer pleases me."

The response seemed genuine – no false smile or unnecessary promise accompanying the words. This apparent lowering of the odds that he might very soon be forced to use the poisoned needle he ever carried on his person pleased Qyburn. He took a next tentative step. "I do have unusual interests that I have not of late had opportunity to pursue," he posed.

The pale face nodded slowly for Qyburn had not hid his past from him. "Allowances, within reason, might be made. A quiet people, a quiet land."

"My lord is generous," Qyburn granted, for he had heard what the less discreet from the Dreadfort whispered about the whey faced man's bastard. Seeming to have an accord of sorts, the older man moved on to other relevant business. "I do have a thought on who might best serve as your factum here in King's Landing," he offered, having removed himself from such consideration.

The short fingers of one of the quiet man's hand waggled, to indicate a pause. "How will the allegiance of those who remain behind in my service stay assured?" the suspicious and practical man questioned.

Qyburn moved forward brusquely as they came off the last of the serpentine steps behind the armory. "Three primary possibilities come to mind, my lord. Each may be implemented without impinging on …"

* * *

"Lord Roose. Master Ebrose. My thanks for seeing to my lord father again," the young Stark lord offered the polite fiction as greeting; being the first to speak upon the pair entering again the luxurious apartments once set aside to protect the virginity of Elaena Targaryen.

"Lord Robb," Roose Bolton acknowledged softly, accompanied with a tip of the head. Followed immediately by, "Lady Stark," to the evidently pregnant woman – four or five months by his judgement – and another slight bob of his pale face. However, the Lord of the Dreadfort did not condescend to address the presence of Ser Grey Wind. The direwolf, curled up near a warm hearth, appeared little concerned by the slight; though his yellow eyes were open and watching them.

Qyburn simply bowed deeply to all three, keeping his amusement and mouth shut until directly addressed by his social superiors in either words or growls.

Roose Bolton promptly offered the daily query, "Has there been any change in Lord Stark's condition?"

"My lord husband's fever at last seems to be breaking. He woke frequently o'er night ..."

Qyburn kept his face set placid at that unfortunate news; refraining from seeking answers relevant to the day's stealthy pursuit of knowledge.

"… but disoriented. Confused. Speaking gibberish," Catelyn Stark stated carefully and with some distress.

The question was whether her misery was more for her husband or for what secrets he might divulge; or have already divulged. Roose Bolton openly suspected that "Blessed Ned" had long shared more with his lady wife than was deemed wise for a judicious lord. And as for the young lord … Qyburn cared more to discover whether he could warg with the resting direwolf, not which prophecies the father might have shared with his grown son and heir.

"The Old Gods have granted Lord Stark much. Yet their favor is as much a burden too; placing a powerful mark that even the strongest of us could scarce carry. The North, _all_ the North, cherishes him for this. Such ways of the First Men and the weirwood I have begun to explain as best I may to my Southron betrothed, Lord Robb's goodsister, Walda," the disingenuous Lord of the Dreadfort explained to allay the hinted at fears.

Perhaps satisfied with the ploy of impending kinship by marriage, two sets of Tully blue eyes moved purposefully over to judge Qyburn. The capacity for ingratitude by nobility knew no end; even if the Starks were reputed as better than most in that regards. Had they not trusted him and his ways when they were desperate for succor?

He slipped on his most ingratiating, grandfatherly look as he searched for a stratagem. Then one of Marwyn's favorite quotes came to him. "Lord Stark's milk of the poppy induced dreams matter little to me, my lord and lady; no matter what snippet of truth the Old Gods may hint at through them," he lied smoothly. "Gorghan of Ghis wrote before the Doom that prophecies were like a treacherous whore. She takes your member in her mouth, and you moan with the pleasure of it and think, how sweet, how fine, how good this is … and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams. _That_ is the nature of prophecy. A fool's errand," he scoffed agreeably.

Lady Stark's eyes widened in sheer surprise; the shock at Qyburn's course, lewd words made plain on her face. Then the young lord standing beside her began to snicker. "Robb," she chastised; automatically turning toward her son in parental censure.

"Mother," he answered in dispute, voice rising dangerously close to cracking as he did so; followed by more youthful giggles.

Then a brief snort escaped the lady's nose; and the lips struggled against forming a smile. "Interestingly said, Master Ebrose," she choked out. "I believe my lord husband would … when he is recovered … would enjoy conversing with you on such ... ribald philosophies."

"As his lord would please," Qyburn answered the command; not altering his safe, grandfatherly expression one whit. "If I may, is his lordship awake now?" he broached; deeply concerned to know whether the sick man's improvement might have thrown off the careful regimen of potions Qyburn had been infusing him with.

At that moment the door to the sick room opened and the two daughters emerged. Qyburn promptly bowed his head and murmured, "My ladies;" which they did not hear over Lady Stark's louder, eager questioning. "Is all well? Is your lord father awake?"

"Father sleeps; if unsettled," the cruelly used Lady Sansa answered; adjusting the hand harp carried at her waist.

"Maester Mohrgun would not let us watch him examine father's wounds," the younger, bolder Lady Arya added with disappointment.

The revelation instantly put Qyburn on guard. Though he did not recognize the name; that did not mean the maester might not recognize him. The man could have been just another insignificant acolyte at the Citadel when the Conclave stripped him of his chain. And who knew what tampering he may have already accomplished.

"Perhaps we should return another time, Lady Stark, Lord Robb, if you have now found a maester to serve Lord Stark's needs?" Roose Bolton asked stiffly, becoming equally cautious to the unexpected change in the situation. With the opening of King's Landing and the Red Keep to the former rebel Reach and Stormlands' lords, the threat that some house's maester might wander by and identify Qyburn had been duly noted by the lord that associated with him.

"No, Lord Roose. _His Grace_ sent Maester Mohrgun at Lord Rowan's urging. The maester is one of the healers tending to Ser Loras' maulings; fairly successfully, I hear. I could not say no," the youth explained; and in the process gave a new definition for "successfully:" alive but lacking a nose and sporting only a solitary eye and a solitary foot.

"Ebrose?" Roose Bolton asked softly; his eyes brutally stabbing the unspoken question of whether or not to proceed into Qyburn.

He smiled obsequiously back. "Who are any of us to gainsay the King?"

"Mayhap my healer should watch over this maester to ensure he does no harm?" Roose Bolton suggested.

"By all means, Master Ebrose," Robb Stark agreed. "You've worked a miracle with my lord father."

"My lords. My ladies," Qyburn acknowledged deferentially before moving towards what waited behind the door.

* * *

By the strong, dark color of the close-cropped hair of the man leaning over to examine Eddard Stark's unbandaged face – still unconscious – and the number of links evident in his dangling chain, Qyburn placed the maester in his mid-thirties. In the ranch of ages that their two path's could have crossed in the Citadel a little more than a decade ago. Instinctively his left forearm felt for that slight narrow weight sewn inside the left sleeve of his robe.

This Mohrgun looked over a shoulder and grunted, "Who are you? A servant?"

"A physic," he answered. "I began tending to Lord Stark this past week, after his wounds festered." And worse. "My name is Ebrose."

Thick eyebrows rose in questioning surprise. Bright eyes looked him up and down, judging him. But with discernment or inexperience? "Fine stitch work you have accomplished," he mistakenly acknowledged, gesturing towards the abused face. Then, "You know there is a great healing Archmaes …"

"Named Ebrose. I am aware of him," Qyburn cut him off to admit the " _coincidence_ ," giving no sign of the irony in the statement. He had chased after the other's renown. And here he was revealed by someone dangerously knowledgeable to have foolishly chased his would be rival's actual name too. Luckily, the maester looked completely unfamiliar to him; even after accounting for the passage of years. "I hope you will discover to his Grace that Lord Stark mends well?"

The expected dismissive grunt from one Citadel trained to an inferior practitioner came in reply. Condescension like Qyburn himself had given a thousand times to both the chained and the unchained. "The chest wound must still be watched for return of infection," the man tutted pompously.

"Penetrated front to back; clean through. Broke a rib. Punctured the lung. But missed the heart and major vessels by a coin's edge." As for the resulting infection, Mohrgun knew nothing than to suspect only the usual. "Cauterized first, followed by three daily solutions of distilled wine, and after packed with bread molds," Qyburn recited. But he made no mention of the interfering magic, the slight essence of corrupting darkness left behind to fester in the deepest recesses of the lord's injured body.

Inadvertently, the former maester looked towards the wall behind which sat the bedroom where the eldritch assassination attempt had occurred. Within it, when normal remedies proved futile, he had discovered minute traces of the Shadowbinder's Valyrian steel slain creature in the cracks between the floor stones. An alleviating tincture to combat the decay had been surprisingly easy to brew once the source identified. It had worked quickly with the damage to the hardy torso. Not so readily with the repair tried on the more delicate facial injury.

"He breaths well enough, thankfully. And the nose. Excellently done; though quite odd. So little blood after the join. I've pricked it, but barely a dot of blood emerges." An inquiring look came Qyburn's way.

Qyburn would not speak of the symbiosis achieved there between the flesh's last moment of life and the onset of irrevocable demise. The name, and therefore repute, of Mohrgun signified nothing to him. And to even hint at the arts and elixirs applied to the vestige of skin, sinew, nerves, and cartilage would reveal too much about his identity when word of it reached wiser ears; such as Gormon, who should soon arrive - barring a storm on the Inner Sea - to take up the position of Grand Maester.

"Lord Bolton loves his leeches," he dissembled. "Daily he purges the humours of his body with them. In assisting my lord, I have discovered judicious application along the joins and branchings of blood vessels greatly reduces damaging swelling and allows the flow of only the most vital nutrients to the affected areas. Lord Stark has benefited from such."

"Surely you are not claiming …" the maester gaped dubiously.

"Maester Gulian reattached the flayed parts of the face. You should thank his skill at the stitch work there," Qyburn distracted. "I merely after applied various ointments and such: liniment from Kingsfoil, extract of Athelas, crushed Gillyflower mixed with paste of the Safron Crocus," he droned, naming several semi-obscure plants with Citadel known medicinal properties.

"Yes, yes," Mohrgun agreed, recognizing the names; but clearly, accurately realizing their affects would be limited in healing a nearly decapitated proboscis. "There must be more, man. I've looked up the nostril cavities and seen the damage to the cartilage. What other arts did you apply?" he asked half exasperated and half excited.

Qyburn prepared to answer back, "None your Order approves of," when again the opening of a door intruded.

"Is all well, Ebrose?" came that soft, chilly voice as Roose Bolton stepped into the room.

The door closing behind him was louder than his question. No one entered with him.

Qyburn smiled. "Maester Mohrgun does not believe in the healing efficacy of leeches, my lord," he answered. "And seeks explanation for how Lord Stark's wounds heal."

"Pity. Do you also fail to believe that Lord Stark is blessed by the Old Gods?"

The maester cleared his throat. "I do not have a link in my chain for the study of magic, my lord. Lacking the necessary knowledge to make such an assessment, I would not care to guess one way or the other," the man hedged.

"His Grace believes so," Roose Bolton replied, revealing a wisp of a cruel smile on his pale face. Then, "Is Lord Stark healing?"

"Quite well," the maester admitted.

"Then the how or why of it need not matter. Simply that the Old Gods continue to bless Lord Stark is all that matters. We shall find the King and tell him so," the Lord of the Dreadfort commanded with his frighteningly quietest voice.

"As my lord wishes. Permit me a moment to gather my tools," this Mohrgun declared, accepting his dismissal with surprising steel in the face of the subtle threat.

* * *

After the door closed, Qyburn promptly went to the bed and uncapped several vials he pulled from a pocket in his robe. Only a slight amount of the stimulate was dribbled in the gap made by the sewn slash to the upper lip; the patient was mending and a quick check of his breathing and movement beneath the eyelids showed him not very deep in healing sleep – it would not meet ends to fully rouse him just yet.

Next, a full dose of Aletheia to remove the mind's inhibitions. Followed by an ampoule of Somnia and one of Charos to promote pleasing visions so that the disoriented Lord Stark would not properly remember the questioning to come. Qyburn had played a delicate game the previous two attempts – gaining little more than curiosity. A great curiosity. And it now appeared he would not likely get another chance. He hoped the refinements of his subsequent distillations would suffice.

Though he believed it futile, while waiting for the potions to take effect, Qyburn commenced a quick search of the room; knowing Roose Bolton would later inquire if he had done so. The former maester did agree with his patron's supposition that "Blessed" Ned's prophecies did not actually come in the form of visions. Marwyn had been explicit in the three major ways that that type of revelation occurred and Lord Stark fit none of them.

There were no false floor stones on the far side of the bed.

Neither in the wall itself.

None of the torch sconces swiveled or sported protrusions that moved in order open a cleverly hidden secret compartment. Why would they? Baelor had built the Maidenvault as a cage, a luxuriously gilded one, to secure the flesh tempting personages of his sinful sisters.

No, if some book or scroll carrying the foresight that Roose Bolton believed the Stark lord used to cunningly manipulate one and all actually existed; then it would be in that other bedroom, where the sorcerous attack had befallen "Blessed Ned" and not here. His only excursion there, while successful in procuring a modicum of the stuff of shadow, had been barren where parchment, vellum, and papyrus were concerned.

A low moan caught his ear, causing him to return to the bed. Lord Stark twitched beneath the covers. Eyes shifted under the lids. A rousing dream flitted through the unique man's mind. Happy? Dark? Bizarre?

Qyburn bent low, placing his lips beside an ear. "Lord Stark," he whispered. Nothing. "Lord Stark," he urged softly.

"Yes?" came the rattling reply from a parched throat.

"Will you speak with me?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me all?"

"Aaall."

Qyburn judged the concoctions to hold the patient sufficiently in thrall. The only question was where to start. "Who are you?"

"Whoever you want."

"Are you a Faceless Man?"

"No."

"Are you Eddard Stark?"

"Yyessss."

Something buried deep within the tone of the raspy, drawn out reply unexpectedly captured Qyburn's fancy. "Who else are you?"

"Tybalt … Tadgh … Boromir … Odysseus … Sean … Sharpe … MacBeth … Vronsky … Zeus …"

"Are you George?" He hazarded to interrupt, throwing out the name he had heard rambled feverishly in prior visits.

"No."

"Who is George?"

"Bastard. Fucker. Banished me … this shithole," nattered with growing agitation.

"Easy. Easy," he cautioned. Placing a hand to stroke soothingly across the prisoner's slightly damp forehead. As calm returned, he dared return to the sore felt name. "Does George send you visions?"

"No … pain ... just pain," the partially conscious man moaned with low bitterness.

"Does George speak to you?"

"Once … year ago."

Which was before the Lord of Winterfell suffered and miraculously returned from his beheading. The implications of which raised interesting contradictions. "He told you what to do?"

"No … guessed … script ... books."

"Where are these books?" He whispered urgently, as Roose Bolton's surmise appeared validated.

"Lost ... worlds away ... dust ... sound … fury ... nothing."

"But you remember them?"

"Some … changes ... hard know."

"What _will_ come? Others? Wights? The Long Night?" He posed, using more of the mumbled tidbits he had gathered before.

"Yyessss," Boromir or MacBeth hissed through the gap of stitched flesh in his lip.

"How are they to be defeated?" For what was the point of the Hidden Mysteries going to the eldritch arts shattering trouble of returning a man from the dead if the "Blessed" one could not stop the foretold cataclysm? One that, for reasons that deserved further pondering, had not been raised as far as Qyburn was aware of from his conversations with Roose Bolton; who seemingly tood high in the King's possibly fickle estimation.

"Wildfire … dragonstone … guns … Daenerys and her … her dragons … Bran … Jon … luck."

"Bran? Your son?" He guessed based on what he knew of House Stark.

"Yyesss."

This both did and did not surprise him. If the Lord of Winterfell held some inherent core of magic within his being, then it stood to some reason that the offspring of such a source might also carry the germ of power. That it was the reputed crippled, younger son that held import and not the heir who showed strong signs of warging which startled the former maester. Again, Qyburn wished he could consult Marwyn. "Is Bran a warg, like Robb?"

"No … more."

"More?" The pleasure at the confirmation of the young lord's union with the direwolf was drowned by the implication of the child's possible prowse.

"Green … seer."

Qyburn's eyes widened in astonishment. Such mystical power, if the drugged lord spoke true, was near incalculable. Making a Shadowbinder or a red priest or a warlock of Qarth insignificant by comparison.

"Like three-eyed … crow … Bloodraven," the drug bound patient croaked.

"Bloodraven?" Qyburn actually gasped. The infamous Targaryen bastard would be a century and a quarter old. "Does … does Brynden River's yet live?"

"Yyesss."

"Where?" he demanded, voice rising.

"Beyond … Wall … Children of … Forest."

Qyburn's curious mind could imagine much beyond the keen of normal mortals. The Others and their wight minions, by their legendary nature, could be dealt with as abstractions in his construction of the world. This, this was more solid and thus … more … it was like the first time a maegi practiced tangible blood magic before him. The world's foundation seemed to shift beneath the former maester.

"Who are … you?"

He looked down. It had merely been the bed shifting. Eddard Stark's eyes were open, half focused. The prisoner had escaped the power of the drugs shackling him.

He smiled with his kindest looking grandfatherly charm. "A healer. You were grievously wounded, Lord Stark."

He struggled to move. "Where?"

"Your chest was pierced. No doubt it still pains you …"

"Who?" he queried again in uncertainty.

"A healer, my lord."

Fire leapt into those grey, green-flecked eyes. "Qyburn!" he spat.

"My name is …"

A hand shot up from below the covers to grasp the former maester's neck. Twisting. Pinching. Squeezing the thin flesh of his wrinkled neck. The stub of an arm flounced out too and joined its more shapely brother. If Qyburn still wore his chain and Eddard Stark owned two hands, he might have begun to choke. Instead, slowly, deliberately, he took his two sound hands and removed the assaulting members. "My name is Ebrose, my lord. Ebrose. You have awoken from a newly broke fever," he said reassuringly.

"Fever?"

"Of no worry. The fever has broken. You are healing well. Walking again with perhaps only a week more of rest."

Confusion next danced in those disconcerting eyes. "Not all … hurts," he murmured unhappily. "Something else."

"Of course. You were also struck in the face."

Alarm. Fear. "My … my nose?"

The sole hand tried to twist out of Qyburn's restraining grip. "No, no. Don't touch it, my lord. You might damage the repair."

"Gone?" he whispered with despair; Adam's apple blatantly bobbing to swallow dread.

"No, only badly scarred …" 'and more,' Qyburn told only himself; alone knowing the true art that had gone into saving the man's feature.

"Must … see it," the patient warbled.

"A moment," he cautioned. Using only one hand to reach into a pocket that carried a small mirror. The other, as well as Qyburn's eyes, kept watch to make sure Eddard Stark made no untoward movement against the repairs.

He held it up. Showing the man blessed to still be alive the horrible, thick line of still raw red flesh the dragged across the mid-section of his nose, down the upper lip, and ended just above the left join of the mouth.

In a few seconds a dry hacking sound ground up out of the wounded chest and past the scarred lips. Slowly it grew in volume; refusing to stop. And as it rose higher it came into sharp focus.

"Bwahahahahahahahahaha!"

At last a breath.

Then even louder.

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!"

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!"

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!"

The door to the sick room crashed in as wife and children rushed to the maniacally screaming mad man's side.

Qyburn needed no explanation that it was time for him to withdrawal.

He must speak to Roose Bolton.

Then Ebrose would most likely disappear forever.

And, he suspected, some as yet named person would take ship as soon as the next tide for the North.


	5. Chapter 4 - Theon

**Theon**

 **June 29**

The _Swift Bottom_ flew across the top of the surging, grey seas with a purpose; spraying saltwater from sharp bow and swiftly cutting oars. The rocky cliffs of Pyke had only recently appeared out of the gloom to the West. Not that Theon could afford the luxury of watching the wind swept island, his never forgotten home, rise higher and higher on the horizon.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Two days he had been at this back breaking drudgery unfit for a lord; rowing as part of the longship's crew whenever the fickle winds turned against them. Neither the sweat dripping down his body in the chill air nor the ache of overworked arm and shoulder muscles bothered him much. He was Ironborn after all. Further, he bore the scars to prove it.

However, the unrelenting sting from the weeping blisters on his hands did cause him to yet again, slightly, readjust the grip on his oar.

"Keep up, fucker!" the rower on the seat directly behind him immediately snarled.

He waited for the expected accompanying, scornful kick from Uffe.

Surprisingly, none came. Though others quickly joined in the cursing and scorn as the longship's delicate rhythm went askew ever so slightly. "Fucker." "Cunt." "Salt Wife." "Greenlander."

"Greenlander" shamed him the worst.

'Not that any of them would dare say it to his face,' he thought with grim satisfaction. Not after he had paid the iron price to gain this miserable berth to Pyke.

* * *

" _Who cares he holds a Kraken badge, he was riding in this Greenlander scow, weren't he? Sides, the sapling lacks old Balon's look. Just kill him already." The contempt in the voice of the big first mate of the longship that had butchered the hapless crew of the rented fishing boat was palpable._

" _And you'd know Balon's look how, Bjarke? Rowing for him on the Great Kraken? Whispering in the Widowmaker's ear each day by the Seastone Chair? Eating regular at Pyke's high table?" asked the more grey than black haired captain of the band of reavers with a wry sense of amusement._

" _You want this girl for a salt wife, Gudbrand?"_

 _The slim smile left the old man's face at the insult; body postures across the two tied together ships instantly shifted from casually murderous to dangerously tense. "I like bigger teats on mine," the longship captain replied slowly._

 _A triumphant, brown tooth revealing grin spread across the challenger's lips. "What you like don't matter much now, do it? The Lord Reaper only thought your knarr worth keeping the Greenlanders blind to his true blow."_

 _Disgruntled grunts of agreement slipped out of more than a few of the warriors spread out across both decks._

" _You have a problem? Then meet me if you've the stones, Bjarke. Otherwise, we do as Cleftjaw commanded."_

" _Cleftjaw?!" Theon burst out suddenly. "Take me to Dagmer. He'll recognize me. He taught me my first sword work," Theon boasted; wagging the bloodied longsword over the fisherman he had slain to prove to the descending horde that he was no Riverlander._

 _Attention shifted from the rivals back to him._

" _Perhaps," the captain answered neutrally as dark, calculating eyes drilled into him._

" _Make him jump to the finger dance to prove it," the challenger to Gudbrand's authority snarled._

" _You wanted him dead, Bjarke. You make him pay the iron price for a seat on my 'shit ridden ferry.'"_

* * *

Though he had invoked Dagmer's name, it had actually been Ser Rodrik's training that he relied upon in the resulting clash of swords. The slice that Bjarke gifted him on his cheek only itched fiercely when he periodically poured seawater on it to help stave off infection – no Maester Luwin or Vyman to pamper him here.

Pleasingly, Theon doubted the wound left in return across the former first mate's throat pained his foe much from where he now reposed in the frigid depths with the eels, crabs, and the Drowned God.

"What is dead may never die," he murmured to himself; weary arms and clothe bound hands now gladly resting across his raised oar as the wind direction allowed the _Swift Bottom_ to sail around the last scrub pine clad bluff point to Lordsport. 'But never rise again … fucker,' he silently blasphemed to conclude the age old prayer.

He gingerly moved his swollen fingers to assess the damage rendered by his forced, lowly work. The least Gudbrand should have done for his favor of disposing of the troublesome bastard was to reward Theon with the dead first mate's more agreeable position.

Small cries of pleasure partially roiled the deck as the longship entered the roads of the crowded anchorage and turned to head for a less crowded section.

Soon, one of the half dozen war galleys patrolling the roads rapidly descended upon them; coming close enough to hail Gubrand and hear his news. For good or ill no mention of Theon left the old captain's mouth. The other vigilant longships continued to watch the horizon or rush to check whether inbound knarrs carrying cargos of iron and gear and foodstuffs also held trustworthy ironborn crews.

Best as Theon could determine, the fishing ships and spread out nets he remembered from his boyhood were gone from bay and shore. Now, a score and a half of cogs, two dozen large galleys, and a hand's fingers of caravels rode at anchor in the deeper waters. While a pair of fat-bellied merchantmen were tied up at the beach's single long wooded pier; being unloaded by thralls and captured crews.

None of these vessels showed the flags of the main land noble or merchant houses that once owned them; instead, banners from houses Goodbrother and Tawney on Orkmont, House Blacktyde, and of houses Farwynd and Sparr on Great Wyke were visible atop their crow's eyes.

And, speaking of Crow's Eye, there was no sign of Uncle Euron or _Silence_ ; unspied anywhere the last few years in the Sunset Sea according to the _Swift Bottom's_ crew. Never the less, there was plenty of ironborn strength on display at Lordsport. In addition to the twenty or so regular sized longships in evidence, forty or fifty of the mammoth hulls from the Iron Fleet were floating close to the beach or pulled entirely ashore; including his father's own _Great Kraken_. While six or eight new longships in various stages of overlapping the planking of the keels and sides sat in cribs near the edge of the sea; shipwrights yelling directions at the strake fitters, the riveters, the caulkers, and the carpenters.

And on the small hill above the bustling but dreary looking village, rebuilt and enlarged since it was a burned out ruin when he departed on Lord Stark's galley a decade earlier, a new stone built castle sporting Botley colors now sat. Where were all of Lord Swane's spawn, he wondered? Off seeking temporary glory and treasure with Uncle Victarion, Uncle Aerion, or Asha? Asha!?

Too soon, his contemplation of finding things not as he imagined them was interrupted.

"Stroke, you reiving whoresons! Stroke!" Gudbrand bellowed. He intended to cut through the surf and beach the longship. Maybe the quiet lipped captain did believe him and thought returning the heir to the Seastone Chair to be of some urgency and importance after all.

A heavy boot unexpectedly kicked his arse from behind. "Faster, soft hands," Uffe snarled. Theon smiled vengefully; knowing this situation would turn about once father gave him command of a ship.

He paused a moment to gauge the best instant to join the still ragged start of the tempo.

and …

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

* * *

Theon stumbled hopping out of the longship into the edge between tide and shore, but, thankfully, did not fall to drench and humiliate himself. Quickly, he, along with the rest of the crew, grabbed the sides of the Swift Bottom and pulled it fully out of the surf to the high tide mark shown by what little drift wood and other detritus thrown up by the sea that the ravenous hearths and fires of Landsport had not already greedily picked over.

Carried ashore like a king on the tiller platform of his ship, old Gudbrand easily jumped down on to the rock and pebble strewn beach. A few words here, a few claps on the back of favored rowers there, and then the captain was in front of him.

"Time to find Cleftjaw and see whether you are the young kraken you claim to be … or the next offering for the Drowned Men," the captain announced with a vicious smirk.

Theon hadn't heard of that group before, but he could well guess they were a bunch of Drowned God worshipping fanatics. Not that the ten, long years in Winterfell had ever induced him to want to bow before a damned tree.

Then, in a bellowing voice, Gudbrand yelled, "Go fuck your salt wives if you've got one here!"

"Or someone else's if they ain't," some rogue in the school bawled back to much barking laughter.

"Or drink yourselves stupid at Gimpknee's, Randy Rodger's, or Mug's End! But I'll have the guts of any youse not back by morning high tide! Understand me?!"

General cries of approval met his command.

"Now go see Belly Birger for the silver owed you!"

"Gudbrand!" "Gudbrand!" "Gudbrand!" "Gudbrand!" "Gudbrand!"

A hard clap on Theon's shoulder that staggered him. A laugh. And, "C'mon, fingerling."

Revenge would be sweet, he decided as he trotted after the sprawling, but surprisingly fast, gait of the old man.

* * *

"Nuncle!" he shouted before Gudbrand could open his too clever mouth and spoil everything.

The huge mane of hair and bushy beard were whiter than before, but the rest of that endearing, ugly, mutilated phyz – the moniker left Dagmer from a longaxe – remained just as Theon remembered. Time had not replaced the shattered front teeth nor sewn together the four lips gifted him a Tyroshi sellsail to replace the usual two.

"Nuncle!" he repeated.

Standing near precarious a top a pile of loot – chests, amphorae, rolled up rugs, piles of hides – in the open end of the U of ironborn surrounding him in front of some tavern, the bluff warrior, father's best, shifted in order to better spy the source of the insistent voice.

"Make way, damn you!" Gudbrand snarled, following behind Theon, as he pushed his way through the lot of smelly, vicious killers.

"I've escaped my Greenland gaolers and come home," he cried.

"Who are you, boy?" came a wary growl.

He slipped between the last two blocking his progress, planted his feet wide in the open space – as if captaining from a roiling deck, tilted his head jauntily up, and declared, "Better, who do _you_ think I am?" he bargained back.

Stormy eyes flickered up and down; evaluating him. Judging him. Then, "Theon?"

He smirked, and lifted the edge of the cape that covered the Kraken badge sewn into his now filthy tunic before answering, "Aye, Uncle. Let's go kill some Greenlanders. I thirst for vengeance."

"Theon!" Dagmer roared, dark eyes lightening like the skies after the end of a squall. Instantly his first teacher leapt from his perch to thud soundly in front of him. Still big. Bigger than him still. Aged, but stout arms effortlessly picked him up … like he was a boy of ten again.

"Easy, nuncle. I am not your salt wife," he jested loudly; not wishing to appear weak his first steps back on Pyke, but not wishing to make an instant enemy of the man who had smiled his frightening grin more and wider at Theon than his sour old father or "Blessed" Eddard Stark ever had.

Knowing wit returned to those trusted eyes. Back down Theon went. Dagmer took a step back to gaze upon him fully. After a moment, cruel, disappointing words came out, "Your hands are soft." However, the old pirate continued looking him up and down. "But the rest of you looks hard."

"He slew Bjarke," Gudbrand announced. Theon had not even been aware that the _Swift Bottom's_ captain had followed him all the way into the middle of the ring.

A proud look filled that face. "A narwhale's blow hole, Bjarke. But a strong fighter. I'd reave with this Greyjoy," the mighty Dagmer Cleftjaw declared before the gathered ironborn.

Though his long dreamed for cheers of adulation at the return of the heir to the Seastone Throne failed to materialize, Dagmer's public confidence cheered Theon's soul as much as riding against the Lannisters beside Robb ever had.

* * *

Dagmer may have sailed the waves with savage vigor and nautical brilliance as captain of his _Foamdrinker_ , but, a horse, the archetype ironborn reaver rode like a sack of fish offal. Crippled Bran, in his Imp designed contraption, sat better than Cleftjaw.

But Theon only recognized this in the vaguest of passing thoughts. Too much else of great import captured his full attention so that he must pretend enthusiastic appreciation while his salt soul screamed silently in frustration.

For on the hours long slow trot towards Pyke and his mad lord father - Balon the exceedingly foolish, Balon the drooling imbecile, Balon the chopped off his own cock - his active mind swallowed and judged every bitter storm wave about the already launched invasion of the North that surged and roiled proudly out of the Cleftjaw.

Moat Calin taken ten days ago by Uncle Victarion and three thousand men off thirty ships of the Iron Fleet. As of the last raven, no sign yet of the Manderlys in White Harbor being any the wiser of their presence in cutting the North from Southron lands.

The Paddock taken in the Rills by two thousand ironborn off fifty longships from the various houses of Harlaw, Orkmont, and Blacktyde under the joint command of Uncle Aeron, now called Damphair for some odd reason, and Uncle Rodrik, the Reader. Better still, Old Lord Rodrick was captured alive in the castle's capture; ensuring that the Ryswells fighting south of the Neck for the Starks – Roger, Rickard, and Roose – would not oppose the ironborn's conquests for fear of their sire's life.

And his "sweet", older sister disturbingly much more than just the captain of her own _Black Wind_ , for she commanded a force besieging Barrowon that was somewhere between the size of the other two; from off of ten ships of the Iron Fleet and forty longships from Great and Old Wyk. Unjust by the laws of all the Gods, Asha might prove an actual rival to Theon's position as heir. Dagmer certainly spoke of her approvingly.

He would not let Asha or anyone steal his birthright. Pyke and the Seastone Chair were his; regardless the obstacles he must climb over to secure them.

All of these catastrophes had happened as Theon had snuck his wet, miserable way on a pathetic nag over narrow paths following the Tumblestone west and then over the mountains to Ironman's Bay in search of any wretched, little fishing village with a sloop large enough to bring him and his clever, now useless, plan for glory to father.

A pitiless father who had demonstrated no concern in launching his assault of whether or not his lone son was still a hostage. If not for his own resourcefulness and foresight, Theon might have paid the first price of this foolhardy rebellion with his neck. And he doubted the Drowned God would treat him near so generally as the Old Gods had the "Blessed" Stark.

And how dare Lord Eddard keep him chained like a thrall to that bunch of worn out old women in Riverrun whilst the greatest war of the age was fought without him! Had Theon not already led men in that war? Ridden with the Blackfish? Near crossed blades with the Kingslayer in the Whispering Woods? Slain knights from Houses Banefort and Farman at the Battle of the Camps? And all that while being Robb's closest, most trusted confidant, advisor, and bodyguard?

Were he not already absorbed covering his true feelings and silently plotting how to save his life and position, Theon thought he might vomit at the size of the epic disaster confronting him.

Having stolen from Riverrun without leaving even a hint as to his true intentions, he realized with brutal clarity that he could never go back. They would all, even Robb, now just assume his disappearance was all part and parcel of Balon's gigantic, daft plot to attack the North.

No mention of his genius plans to assist Stannis by buggering Renly's Reach allies with sea assaults against the Shield Islands, up the Mander, sacking Oldtown, and wresting control of the Arbor would now ever pass his lips.

Only bitterness, hatred, sword, and torch against the North and the Starks could he show from this day forth if he knew what was good for him. He did not want to receive, at best, a second smile like the one he had granted uncouth Bjarke.

"Why does my father keep you anchored at Lordsport, nuncle?" Theon asked slyly.

* * *

Coming within sight of Pyke, the first thing he noticed was a new south tower along the arc of the dark, lichen splotched curtain wall on the castle's landward side. Sometimes the thunder of the old one's collapse echoed in his dreams. Much else about his home would likely have changed.

He had already discovered that his Mother would not be there to greet him. Her cough having forced her to live at the less damp Ten Towers on Harlaw. Neither would he find Sylas Sourmouth stewarding nor Qalen mastering; both gone to sleep in the sea.

And Dagmer had shared of Uncle "Damphair's" descent from the free drinking, amusing scoundrel Theon remembered into the greatest fanatic of the Drowned God. Near drowning when the _Golden Storm_ sank off the Westerlands. Then being reborn harder and stronger; " _the fish ate the scales off my eyes in the deep; and, when I arose from the Drowned God's embrace, I finally saw clearly._ " And the "Drowned Men" he had heard mention of were his Uncle's sworn band of fellow fanatics.

"Cleftjaw!"

"Cleftjaw!"

"Any news?"

The guards atop the battlements above the gates cried out.

"More fat bellied cogs and galleys taken. More thralls and even a few salt wives taken. Nothing new of worth," his nuncle called back.

Theon deflated as his cheeks grew crimson with ire. " _Nothing new of worth?_ " He had expected Dagmer, at least, to have gladly, proudly announced his return. What welcome and support might he expect from his father?

Within, the stables, kennels, pens, and other out buildlings on the headland appeared more dreary and run down than he remembered them. A far cry from sprawling but always tidy Winterfell. Castle dogs soon swirled around them and a few disheveled stable hands came at a desultory trot to take their mounts.

Theon began to pull up in order to dismount but Dagmer kept his poor seat; heading south towards the cliffs and the stone bridge that lead over to the Great Keep. He snorted in amusement at this display and spurred his gelding to catch even again with Dagmer. At least they would enter Balon's presence as equals.

Over the salt and lichen stained stones and above the gurgling sea ever drumming against the rocks they rode and into the Great Hall which formed the first level of the keep. The Seastone Chair sat empty. Poorly dressed, unkempt thralls were resentfully at slow labor bringing out the tables and benches for the coming dinner.

"Where is the King?" Dagmer shouted.

"His son and heir has returned," Theon mouthed silently.

"The Sea Tower, last I knew," some old woman in grey with a face as withered as the Crone answered first.

"See two rooms are made there for the night, Helya."

"As you say, m'lord." And she snapped her fingers to draw the attention of a runner.

A runner whom they passed on the second of two more stone bridges, narrower than the first, they took to towers on individual rocky islets further out from the cliffs and into the dark sea. At the Salt Tower, they were, at last, forced to dismount. The guard silent, but clearly flummoxed at having a pair of reins handed him.

Then out across the last bridge to the Sea Tower they carefully trod. This one was built of simple wood flats ensconced within cross supports and guidelines of slick, algae infested ropes. Almost slipping, Theon had a brief flashback of careless sprinting across this death trap every day as a child. Damned lucky, fool of a boy. No longer.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The grey, rusty iron studded door opened to Dagmer's hammering.

The old warrior pushed his way past the lone guard wearing a simple helm and breastplate. Up the circular, cramped, poorly lit stair Theon followed him until they came to a stop at what he thought he remembered as the family solar; smaller, damper, chillier than he remembered.

"Tell me," the rattling voice croaked out of the desiccated form wrapped almost like one of the Ghiscari mummies that Luwin had once showed them a picture of in his library in the neat Maester's turret inside a seal skin where he sat on a faded chair beside a small table holding a solitary lantern and a few parchments.

Balon?

His father seemed shrunken; face nothing but bone and the sparest of flesh about the lips.

"Theon has escaped the Greenlanders."

He thrust himself forward past Cleftjaw into what dim, flickering light shining out the lantern partially filled the room. "I've come to war against the Starks," he declared in his most menacing voice.

Sharp, flinty black eyes within that barely skin covered skull turned to peer at him. Looking him up and down. Judging him. Stopping a moment to spitefully take in Theon's blister wrapped hands. But also, approvingly, the raw, irritated sword slash on his cheek.

"War demands warriors," his father rasped. "Not soft boys who have their guts hewn open, leaving their entrails to be picked over by crabs or ravens."

Theon smiled savagely. "I am a blooded fighter. I paid the iron price to win my freedom. No one," ' _not even you, father,_ ' "gifted me it with gold," he stated proudly.

"Did you?"

"He killed Bjarke to win a spot on Gudbrand's _Swift Bottom_ ," Dagmer to confirm that part of Theon's tale.

That earned a small nod. At least Balon was not so isolated in his madness that those names meant nothing to him. "You'll need to travel to Blacktyde to take his salt wives," the old fool said.

"No, let others bicker over Bjarke's diseased whores," Theon answered scornfully.

This received a brief, dry chuckle; followed immediately by a rapidly spewed litany of suspicions. "Did Ned Stark give you plump lasses with sweet cunnies to dip your oar in? The pleasure of eating at his table? Learning from his maester? Did you pray with him to his tree gods?"

"Aside from allowing me a sword, he gave me naught but the back of his hand." An exaggeration, but not much of one. A time or three that stern face had tried to act the father. His wife had been colder still. And of their children, only Robb had treated him with anything like friendship. Almost a brother. Yet … "I yearn for vengeance," he lied easily.

"We shall see."

"Sigrin will have another longship for the Iron Fleet ready to float in a fortnight," Dagmer suggested. Perhaps he was not overly infatuated with Asha as Theon first feared.

"We shall see," Balon repeated; this time much more forcefully.

"I will gladly fight in the North, should you wish it, sire. Or taking sword and torch to the Riverlands to burn Seagard in revenge for Rodrik," who was better off dead as far as he cared; though that brother had never been despised as much cruel Maron – the only good to come from the collapse of the South Tower was it crushing him.

He had come up with the many ideas to prove his worth, save his own hide, and in time seize the crown and the Seastone Chair.

"Ten years Stark held you."

"As hostage."

"A long time."

"He brought himself back," Dagmer pointed out.

"Not before fighting beside the Young Wolf."

Surprise must have passed over his face.

"Oh, yes. Word of that made its way over the seas, boy. Did the Starks make you theirs? The secret wolf grown fat and soft on green land ways sent to slay the Kraken?"

"Best to make them trust me. To ease my escape," he admitted before turning hotter. "I had no crew, no longship waiting to aid me. With salt in my veins and the sea as my guide, I did what you did not, old man. I broke free. And here you sit judging me as others sail forth to pay the iron price so that a crown may sit your head. Who is the true Kraken and who is the craven?" he snarled.

This rant caused mad Balon to cackle, "At least you seem made of the spunk I placed in your mother's belly that bred you. So how best to gain your revenge. What do you have to say, boy? I vowed to outlive both Stark and the Baratheon King. Thought I had done so, but Stark's gods thought other. You spoke freely of my ships. Where would you sail them, eh?"

"King Stannis loves us no more than Robert or Lord Eddard."

"Piss on him too," Balon scowled.

"Renly Baratheon, I hear, is a more amiable sort. What happens here, or in the North, likely would not matter much to him as he plays at knight and kingship."

"Is he?" foolish Balon smirked.

"Yes. And with the Redwyne heirs hostage in the Red Keep, he has no way to cross the Blackwater Rush. So let me and Dagmer take the half of the Iron Fleet still here around to the Narrow Sea and join forces with Renly. Let King's Landing burn as the Iron Isles once did," he passionately pushed his clever stratagem.

A sound ship with a clever crew might find itself lost in the Step Stones on such a long journey. A life of pirating the Free Cities or in the Summer City had a certain appeal to him; especially when compared to the justice offered by Eddard Stark's dark colored, fearsome _Ice_.

"You think this a sound war plan?" decrepit Balon prodded him.

"We shall see," he snarkily answered back.

"Yes, we shall." And at last one thin, wool clad arm emerged from within the seal skin wrap so that a near skeletal hand could grab a small scroll off the nearby table. "For Renly has bent the knee and Stannis threatens destruction of root and branch of my house should the ironborn break the King's peace in the North or anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms."

Theon's mouth dropped open in shock.

And the single word "fuck" rolled out of it.


	6. Chapter 5 - Jeyne Poole

**Jeyne Poole**

 **July 2**

The crowds of smallfolks and men-at-arms about the many merchant tents were sizeable, but not so overwhelming as to be an impediment as Sansa, Jeyne, and their two score strong Karstark and Umber escort began riding across the Tourney Grounds.

Young Lord Harrion showed sensibility towards Sansa's nervous disposition and meandered a course to avoid the thickest masses. And the outriders chased off all brown brothers who came into their sight. The memory of the Faith provoked blood thirsty mob ravaging King's Landing's streets and the death of brave Ser Olyvar still troubled her friend and lady greatly.

Ta-de! Ta-de! Ta-de! Ta-ta-ta-dum! The echo of the trumpets blaring from the Great Grandstand announced the start of the day's first joust.

But not one of the company bothered to increase the speed of their mount's past a slow trot. They rode to attend the last day of the Peace Tourney out of duty, nothing more. Few warriors of the North had bothered to enter the lists for either the tilts or the melees. They had won the war. What need did the victors have of worthless Southron baubles and praise from over clever demonstrations of false battle prowess?

Soon enough the first cheers and groan erupted from out of their intended destination.

Then a few minutes later a second set of such noised tumbled forth.

Hoofs clipped on brick as they passed into the concourse beneath the stands. Noble folk still lingering around the finer merchant stalls scurried out of the large groups way as they made towards the Royal entrance.

This caused gold cloaks to rush forward.

"Hey! Hey now, friend!" a sturdy looking captain's harsh voice cried out, meaning no such thing. "Move along elsewhere if you know what is smart for you."

Pulling his stallion to a halt, Harrion looked down upon the knight and simply declared, "The Lady Sansa."

The rest of the escort promptly pressed their horses outward to provide a visible path forward for Sansa; Jeyne following behind.

Under the polished half helm atop the guard commander's head, eyes grew visibly large with recognition. That and a worshipful respect which Jeyne had by now already seen a thousand times about the Red Keep for her childhood friend – a look that even new come Reach and Stormland knights and lords had begun to share.

She knew the striking red hair could be emulated by any half talented whore with access to a decent set of dyes; Tyroshi would be best. But the litany of scars left across her friend's sweet face by cruel Kingsguard gauntlets? No. Until the day the young lady's body entered the crypts below Winterfell, there would never be a mistaking of Sansa Stark by anyone in Westeros.

Bofors, a lordling's third son sworn to the Umbers and a war captain high in Lord Stark's esteem, helped Jeyne dismount while the new lord of the Karhold assisted Sansa down. Releasing his grip, Harrion's hand swept around to encompass carts holding delicious smelling delicacies, stalls with fine silks and jewelry, as well as the nearest tunnel leading up into the grandstand. "Where to, my lady?"

Determination focused many of the scars to almost focus together forward. "We are expected, Harry," she announced wearily.

"Very good." He answered with an amiable smile while offering Sansa an arm that she promptly took.

"Milady," Bofors rumbled with less assurance; though also proffering his own thickly muscled arm, if uncertainly and without the same alacrity as the Lord of the Karhold.

"My lord," she answered politely, as she just as uneasily placed a tentative hand on his clothed flesh. The title she spoke provoked an amused snort from the unwanted male companion that public circumstance forced upon Jeyne.

Off they went into the unlit passaged; two pairs marching to see what peace with the Reach and the Stormlands now looked like.

"My deepest apologies, Lady Sansa, my lord, a moment, please; the next tilt is starting," the senior usher controlling the archway out into the grandstand nearest the King murmured with equal measures of obsequiousness and pomposity. "Lord Mallister against Ser Balon. Their seventh lance," he quickly added with a superior, knowing smirk before his head greedily whipped back around to watch the display that his body blocked them from viewing.

And to prove his judgement, even over the constant loud buzz of voices and the odd shout, the thunder of hooves accelerating over hardened earth almost immediately started to reverberate.

Clang-Snap!

The sound of a collective gasp that near sucked up all the air. Then …

CRASH!

"Well struck, Ser Balon!" the petty official from the Red Keep who wore some minor unknown house's badge in addition to the Crowned Stag sewn into his black and gold coloured livery cried excitedly.

Many, many other congratulatory screams of "Ser Balon" quickly echoed across the Great Grandstand. Accompanied by a ridiculous number who started honking like mad geese for some silly reason. All so loud that Jeyne barely heard young Lord Harrion clear his throat meaningfully.

Remembering himself, the junior functionary stepped aside, saying, "Please." Permitting the great lady and young lord entrance. Three seconds later, a calculating look of avarice crossed the man's face as he appraised Jeyne in her plain grey dress and the even plainer appearing Umber-man.

"Don't mind if we do," Captain Bofors declared without pausing, his off-side elbow swinging intimidatingly close to the flunky as he led Jeyne out of the confining dark tunnel into the open sunlight.

Quickly they pivoted to take stairs higher up into the stands after Sansa.

The rows and rows of seats were full to overflowing; even here, approaching the royal box. Renly Baratheon had wrongly brought thousands upon thousands of Reach and Stormland banner lords and warriors with him to King's Landing. All of whom the awkward king must try to ingratiate himself with for the good of the realm and the North.

Men vastly outnumbered the women in the crowd – few having been willing to bring their wives to war; however, were dressed in their finest garments. Same as Jeyne remembered from the Tourney of the Hand. She ignored the discomfort the memories brought and continued to keep following as always behind the braver, stronger, prettier Sansa.

She found her friend stopped on the staired slope beside the box in which the hobbled, Roslin-less Robb sat with his goodbrother, the one legged Ser Perwyn, the kindly Lord Hornwood, and the scary Lord Bolton. Jeyne fit in well with her liege lord's family – so many of them crippled one way or another.

To the other side of the aisle, opposite the box reserved by the King for House Stark, was an even larger box holding many lords whom she recognized: noble Ser Brynden, brave Dacey Mormont and her downcast appearing betrothed, crotchety Lord Celtigar, bald Nestor Royce, as well as the suspect trio of Tyrell, Redwyne, and Rowan. All members of the Small Council.

An uncontrolled shudder took her.

Captain Bofors said nothing, for the King had just purposefully stood up in the decorated royal box, but instead looked questioningly at her.

* * *

 _The slender, finely garmented man that Jeyne saw standing over the seated Sansa sported a ready smile and the same effortless demeanor of any one of the many high lords present at the Hand's Tourney as they called it to Lord Stark's discomfort. "I have not had the honor, my lord," her friend announced properly as courtesy required._

" _Sweet child, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the king's small council," Septa Mordane condescended to explain._

* * *

She shook her head slightly to show the coarse Umber-man that it was of no import.

The King's voice boomed out, "My congratulations on your victory, Ser Balon. We look forward to seeing you tilt again later."

The honks following the royal recognition now made sense to Jeyne; for the winning knight was from House Swann and his coat of arms displayed a black and a white pair of his name sake. Silly, stupid girl to forget such simple, well known details. She had been cruelly trained to be cleverer and more useful than that.

"For your Grace and for the Stormlands' honor!" the knight who had also been trapped in King's Landing under the evil Joffrey, but under much less strenuous circumstances than some, clearly pandered.

Mention of the formerly rebellious kingdom against Stannis Baratheon aroused a mighty cheer from those of that land present. But for good or for ill?

Jeyne saw the king's face tighten, but not outright scowl, as if he suspected the same. At least no drunken or bitter fool of a lord or knight cried out Lord Renly's name at mention of the Stormlands. The Lord Paramount and his lovely Tyrell bride had, after some strong urging as court gossip intimated, departed King's Landing for Storm' End three days after the Queen's funeral.

When the thunder of voices rolled away, the King continued magnanimously, "Lord Jason, you, as all of House Mallister has proven to me, are valiant and true. You have my thanks and friendship."

Lord Jason in his eagle winged helmet and violet-blue hued armor had also jousted and lost in that previous tourney.

"Victory might have been sweet, but your Grace's words are worth more than any laurels. Hail Stannis, King!"

Cries of "Stannis, King!" "Hail Stannis!" "The Stag!" and "King Stannis!" leapt out to echo the Lord of Seagard's proclamation; louder and more widespread than the exuberance demonstrated moments earlier for the Stormlands - yet failing to fully encompass the entire breadth of the grandstands.

Beneath his heavy brow, the King's stormy, dark blue eyes scanned the crowd, as if to spy out each shut mouth; then, came to rest near directly below the royal box. A quick hand gesture started trumpets blaring out to announce the start of the next bout.

When the last notes began to ebb away, the object of his intent gaze curtsied and said not loudly, but without shyness or sentiment, "Your Grace."

"Lady Sansa." The almost gaunt face twitched. "I am … pleased."

"I came as the King commanded." Which was not wholly truthful. Still frightfully distraught from the eldritch attack on her lord father as well as the heinous murder of Queen Selyse, Sansa had hidden herself away from the King's sight during his frequent visits to the Maidenvault to check for himself on the progress of Lord Stark's recovery.

Then, his Grace had inquired from Robb of her friend's well-being on both the first two days of the tourney. And with Sansa's continued absence from the Stark box on the previous day, a royal demand for direct affirmation of her health had been extended. "And as his Grace can see, I am as well as I am."

His close cropped head nodded a single time in acknowledgement; thin lips tight until they broke apart to utter, "Most dutiful, my lady."

"Your Grace," Sansa repeated coolly, breaking her pose to curtsy once more, and then move into the box to the furthest empty seat within – turning her back to the King as she sat. Startled by the abrupt end to the unusual audience, Lord Harrion murmured his own discomfited, "Your Grace," and followed quickly after his charge for the day.

Jeyne followed suit, her weak hand attached to Bofors' strong arm nudging him into a bow alongside her curtsy.

As with her polite bob, Jeyne's words of "Your Grace" barely registered with the King. He had no eyes for her. Instead, he slowly lowered himself to rejoin the still seated members sharing his box: Lord Hand Garlan, Lord Commander Ser Jocelyn, and the six knights who had won the previous days' melees to earn themselves Deputy Commander status in the new Order of the Crowned Stag that had replaced the Sansa dishonoring Kingsguard.

Jeyne took the nearest seat in the Stark's box; closest to the aisle and escape.

* * *

The three matches that rounded out the quarter finals of the Joust were completed before noon and drew only enough of Jeyne's attention for her to note that a Ser Franklyn Cockshaw of the Reach required ten sticks before he unhorsed Ser Lyman Staedmon of the Stormlands, that the hedge knight Ser Timon the Scrapesword was far better with a lance than with his humble moniker and dispatched Ser Desmond Templeton seemingly almost before the knight from of the Vale could strap on his helm, and that Ser Damon Hastwyck and Ser Gyles Orme – both from the Reach – were so closely matched that after twenty sticks the King awarded the joust on points to Ser Damon.

None of the remaining knights in the joust were as physically beautiful or as gorgeously outfitted as she hazily remembered either Ser Loras or Lord Beric once having been an age ago. She well remembered that first sight of the Marcher Lord had foolishly struck her with love and the swooning desire to marry him. Later, she had been so certain he would fulfill the noble quest laid upon him and return the monstrous Mountain's head to Lord Stark; justice mete.

Had Jeyne been one or two month's training in the brothel when the gossip among the other whores reached her of his death? Somehow she had found a reservoir of innocence from which to draw a few meager tears. Nothing, not even hope, had remained by the time of Lord Stark's beheading.

Later, much later, Jeyne had secretly overheard Lord Stark telling Lady Stark, Lord Tully, and Robb of Lord Beric leading a secret army in the Riverlands against the Lannisters, as well as any local lord who ill-treated the smallfolks. And that both like and unlike what the Old Gods had done to him, the Queen's Red God kept returning Lord Beric from death. But somehow smaller than before each time it was accomplished.

Maybe if he became small enough he might find her … ' _Stop_ ,' she commanded herself. Regaining composure, she attempted to shift her attention outward again; away from thought, away from memories.

A flash of vibrant coloured clothe moving in the aisle beside her caught her eye and she looked over at it.

Whether it was the turn of her head or something else, a lord or knight dressed in a bright orange velvet doublet adorned with three black lightning bolts paused almost directly beside her. He smiled down at her, that unsavory all too familiar look soon slipping on to his confident, domineering face; dark eyes beginning to undress her out of the drab grey sack dress she perpetually wore.

"You have the look of the North, my lady; but far warmer and fairer than Winter," he smarmed.

"I'm Jeyne Poole," she squeaked; memories suddenly swarming back again, overwhelming her.

* * *

" _You have the Tully look to you, my lady," the lord of whores and treachery subtly declared his sick compulsion with calm self-assurance._

" _I'm Sansa Stark. I have not had the honor, my lord," the unknowing object of his twisted fascination answered with a politeness she was unaware to be completely undeserved._

" _Why tis Lord Petyr Baelish, who first lusted after Lady Catelyn when she was just a girl," Septa Mordane giggled; not knowing that, thanks to the evil made flesh before them, her last words would be weak gurgles for mercy wheezed out through a slit throat, and not more stupid words about a lady's proper behavior or the Seven._

" _Your mother was_ my _queen of beauty once," the vile mockingbird confirmed as his eyes swept up and down Sansa; judging her beauty, the ripeness hidden within her unflowered body. "You have her hair," the evil man pronounced and then proceeded to fondle a strand of auburn a moment; the useless septa never once chastising the filthy demon for his overstepping the bounds of propriety._

 _Then, as something lustful and covetous flashed perhaps too obviously in his unsmiling grey-green eyes, Petyr Baelish abruptly turned away to disappear into the grandstand's crowd._

 _Of Jeyne, her future lord and master and polluter took no note; not realizing, but most likely not caring, that one day he would touch oh so much more of her than just her whore dyed red hair._

* * *

That was the first time she met the mocking demon shaped in the semblance of a man; but, to her utmost heart wrenching regret and humiliation, far from the last. Just another red haired whore who failed to meet his expectations, but not his perverted uses.

"Fuck off, the lady has no interest in your like," Bofors barked.

"And who are you? Her Septa?" the lord condescended.

The ugly, plain dressed Umber captain instantly sprang up; the top of his head barely coming to the height of the other's chin. "I am a 'Man of the Last Hearth.' One of the 'Band of Brothers' who shed blood with Lord Stark at the Green Fork," he declared proudly, then immediately sneered, "While you, Ser, slept a bed holding your manhood cheap."

"Tcha, little man. The Lion was old and senile. I assure you I am neither."

"Then maybe a big Southron shite like yourself will be more impressed that I sailed with Lord Robb to bugger Lord Tarly while you were too busy holding Renly's cock for Loras to suck!" Bofors snarled loud enough for those around to clearly hear.

Gasps of shock and outrage erupted about them as the urge to shriek hysterically fought to control Jeyne's cowardly lungs, throat, and mouth.

The knight's sword hand shot straight away to the bejeweled dagger hanging from his expensively decorated leather belt; only to have his wrist be clasped in a crushing grip from the smaller man's big, callused hand.

The Reachers in the Small Council box leapt to their feet and began shouting for satisfaction.

"Ser Malwyn!"

"SER MALWYN!" the booming voice repeated, sufficiently cutting through the growing din that many eyes flickered to see its source ... the Royal Box.

But it was not the King who was standing and trying to impose order in the chaos. No, it was Garlan Tyrell.

"My Lord Hand, I demand …"

"Ser Malwyn, for disturbing the King's peace, you will cross the Blackwater Rush by dusk and not return for a year or meet a stricter justice."

"Ser Garlan, this low born cretin …" the knight began incredulously.

"Ser Malwyn, do not make all House Leygood share the cost of your stupidity and pigheadedness."

The slack jaw and stunned eyes narrowed as some semblance of recognition at last imprinted itself on the Knight of Summer's o'er privileged mind. A grumble of, "Yes, my Lord Hand," reluctantly trickled out.

This elicited words of consternation at the Hand's judgement from several of the Ser's nearby and high ranking supporters. Ser Garlan choose to ignore them, instead calling out next, "Captain Bofors?"

No! Jeyne wanted to open her mouth to beg royal forgiveness. He had only been defending her non-existent honor. But she lacked the courage to unlock her mouth. She was not a she-wolf, like the Queen had deemed Sansa; only a former whore destined to live as an aging spinster in service to her blessed lord's house.

"Aye, milord Hand?" her escort replied warily; releasing the wrist of the chastened Reacher.

"I was disappointed not to see you fight in any of the melees."

At the odd choice of words spoken by the Hand, dread happily faltered in Jeyne's heart.

Surprise crossed that pock marked face, curling the canted nose further. "Oh. That, milord." He cleared his throat. "There are ironborn in the North to kill, see," he pointed out gravely.

Seated next to the upright Garlan, the king nodded in agreement at the simple explanation.

Then, daringly, Bofors cheekily added, "Sides, that un," and he bobbed his head at the Stag, "don't need _me_ nor anybody nurse-maiding him. His sword arm's better than mine. Didn't I watch his Grace with my own eyes win back the Iron Throne from them lying Lannister bastards?"

"A mighty sight it must have been. I wish I had been there to witness it," Garlan Tyrell easily and amiably spoke the lie in difference for the greater good of maintaining the peace. "When the joust is over, you and the Lady Jeyne shall walk with me to the Melee Pit for the Master-at-Arms Contest. I would gladly hear of that glorious moment from your perspective," the Hand commanded, extending the protection of his cloak over the two of them.

Instantly he looked down at Jeyne for her permission.

She nodded it quickly; still quite shocked that Garlan Tyrell actually knew her name.

"T'will be our honor, milord," Bofors declared loudly. Then, in a far softer voice, snickered at the disgraced Ser Malwyn of House Leygood, "Run back ter yer mammie, boy."

Trumpets soon blew again to announce the continuation of the Joust.

* * *

A flutter from the unwanted attention directed at her by the many lusty lords and fewer number of haughty ladies present – ogling her, Jeyne's mind and fears wandered so far that the victories at the tilts by Ser Franklyn over Ser Balon and Ser Timon over Ser Damon hardly registered. However, the two cups of wine Bofors' silver procured greatly aided in the restoration of her nerves by the time the championship match to award false bragging honors as well as the seven thousand gold dragon purse began.

The hedge knight struck the first hard blow; Ser Franklyn only holding his seat by desperately grabbing the tops of his stirrups with his toes. Several more passes resulted in glancing blows and shattered lances, but nothing close to a fall. Then ill-luck fell upon the Scrapesword as his stallion pulled up lame in mid charge; throwing him off balance and open for a devastating blow. One, which at the very last second, Ser Franklyn refused to deliver; instead raising his lance to just miss Ser Timon as he rode to the end of the list to great cheers for his knightly virtue at not striking a helpless foe.

Another display of gallantry followed almost immediately and gained almost equal audible approval from the crowd. Ser Damon, the Scrapesword's previous opponent, offered up his own jousting charger to the modestly equipped hedge knight. After a few minutes of Ser Timon adjusting to his mount, the tilts resumed. Five more passes occurred before Ser Franklyn won the laurels by unseating Ser Timon.

Jeyne paid no mind to whomever the victor choose as his Queen of Beauty, for it was neither Jeyne nor Sansa. Instead she quaffed, as rapidly as decorum permitted, a third cup of bravery for the uncomfortable interview that the coming walk with the Hand of the King would inevitably entail. T'would be far easier on her if she dared claim an ailment so she might share Robb's litter to the Pit.

* * *

Once out and away from the jam-packed Great Grandstand, Ser Jocelyn and the six Deputy Commanders of the Order of the Crowned Stag - several still sporting contusions and bruises from their victories in the previous days' melees, led a solid wedge of Gold Cloaks to clear a path for the King, his Hand, and three specifically granted the privilege of accompanying them.

To his credit, Ser Garlan, with sincerity in his voice, complemented her as a knight should a maiden; despite Jeyne's dull dress, drab features, and unmaidenly renown. He inquired solicitously as to any particular skills common to a lady that she excelled at; which she shyly demurred from answering in any depth. And, perhaps to not let the conversation lapse uncomfortably, he brought up all the new Northron inspired music that had entered the court. Speaking, with evident longing for her, that when his sweet wife, Leonette, arrived in King's Landing, she would need to sharpen her skills at the high harp so as not to embarrass herself before the King.

However, as two warriors should, the Hand spoke mainly with Bofors about the Umber captain's experiences in the just ended war and what he knew of the coming campaign against the ironborn – of the recovered wounded from the Green Fork marching up the Neck from the Twins, the ships gathering outside the River Gate to transport 5,000 Northmen to White Harbor, and of the preparations of the Redwyne fleet in the Arbor.

Jeyne minded being ignored not in the least. It allowed her to concentrate on overhearing as best she could the sporadic conversation between the Crowned Stag and his chosen walking companion, the auburn haired She-Wolf; Lord Harrion having wisely relinquished his escort duties of Sansa to the royal prerogative without a murmur.

"I hear Master Symon sing your songs near every day, Lady Sansa."

"They are my father's songs, your Grace. Gifted him by the Old Gods."

A pause.

"Yes, the Old Gods."

Followed by a long silence.

"His voice is not yours."

No response.

"The songs are the less pleasing for it. Might you …"

"No … my ... my lord father … yet requires great care from me, your Grace."

"Ahem … Dutifully stated, Lady Sansa. The whole realm needs Lord Eddard … recovered. To return to the North."

A pause.

"Perhaps when your lord father is well again …"

"It is not for his pain alone I ache, your Grace. Song … and joy and … courage has flown from my heart."

"You have suffered … losses. "

Another long silence.

"I miss the Queen, your Grace. She gave me strength."

A brief pause.

"Selyse had the strength of a great lord."

"And such wisdom. I miss her guidance, terribly."

"A dutiful wife."

The conversation between the two then lagged, as both most likely fell wordlessly into their own memories of the murdered Queen.

"You think me wrong, Captain Bofors? Then where will the ironborn in the Rills go next?"

"The greedy bastards 're probably heading up the Flume ta Torrhen's Square. They'll want their own loot rather than share in the taking of Barrowton."

"But the town is far larger and wealthier than House Tallhart's holdfast. There is more there for them to pay their damned iron price for," Ser Garlan disputed.

"True, for the crew. But then who captains the longship once they throw Lady Dustin to their Drowned God?"

"Ahhhh. You're as clever as you are ugly, captain."

"Haha. Sweet compliments won't win you a kiss, milord Hand. And you're not so stupid about the North as I feared a pretty Reacher ta be."

The Umber captain's daring response won him a short chuckle in exchange; followed more seriously by Ser Garlan's explanation, "The King demands competence in his Hand, so I am well motivated to learn all I must about each of the Seven realms." Then, his head turned towards Jeyne. "My lady, perchance, might you know whether the Old Gods have granted Lord Stark any visions as to what the ironborn plan to do next?"

With the question, Captain Bofors eagerly leaned forward to gawk at her also.

Feeling very uncomfortable under their powerful gazes, Jeyne never the less found at least the bravery to not betray the confidence placed in her by her savior. "Your pardon, my lord; though I am treated almost as a close kin by Lord Stark and his family, I do not sit in on their war councils. And if I did, forgive me, I would not tell you without his leave." A pause as she searched for why she would deny even the King if she must. "I owe him everything."

* * *

 _BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!_

 _Many strong arms pounded mercilessly on the locked ground floor shutters and barred main door._

" _Open in the name of the true King!" an ominous voice shouted out._

 _In the second floor display parlor, several of the girls fled to the stairs and their rooms higher up. Jeyne instinctively huddled with the others; who, like her, were too petrified to flee for what meager safety or hiding spots could be found elsewhere._

 _Fear had run deep in the Not So Silent Sister the last ten days and nights. Not since word had spread like wildfire on the Street of Silk of that abomination Baelish's death. Any relief had been short lived with the Mother Superior and the Chief Enforcer fleeing within an hour with all the ready coin and small valuables. While the ruffians and stronger servants, when they weren't brutally raping those who had once been untouchable to them, stole anything of worth not nailed down in the brothel._

" _Open now or we smash our way in!"_

' _Where's Lyoni?' Jeyne squeaked to herself in the middle of the gaggle of shivering girls. The more senior whore had been "friendly" on the sly with the Serjeant who regularly came to collect the Gold Cloaks' weekly cut. Somehow her desperate note had reached Bradner and he had brought his squad to put the house under his protection. Which meant a rotation through the brothel of Gold Cloaks free to brutalize which ever girls caught there fancy; except for Lyoni, who became the new Mother Superior._

" _It'll go the worse for you lot if we do!"_

 _Then, on the night they had all stood in sick fascination - along with the paying cocks - on the roof to look down Rhaenys Hill at the eerie green flames spreading to the west and south of Visenya's Hill, Bradner and his men had fled into the brothel and barred all the entrances. The city was falling and the vengeful Northmen would have blood for the crimes committed by the Lannisters against their reborn lord and his noble daughter._

" _Comin'!" Bradner called out; stumbling drunk and disheveled from the strongroom into the showflesh salon and heading for the stairs._

" _Enough waiting, break it down!"_

" _We've five more whore houses ta go!"_

" _I's said I's comin'!" the serjeant who had thrown away or burned any of his belongings that might reveal him to have been on the watch shouted. Then in a quieter, menacing tone, he looked at the group of scared whores, "Notta word from youse sluts, or ssssvip." The finger going across his unshaven throat revealing his deadly intent._

 _Much as thoughts of true Northmen now being in control of the city except for the Red Keep had kindled some small hope in Jeyne; the rough treatment and threats had kept her desire to sneak out well quelled. Who knew what worse she might find on the street. Besides, though she knew in general where she was, the beastly mockingbird had ever forbidden her the privileged of even five minutes outside the house. She feared being lost in a blizzard of even worse madness._

" _Hurry man or we'll have your balls!"_

" _Comin'! Comin'! Lots of good whores cheap fer you men if ya want'em. Here's I am."_

 _The squeak of the unoiled door started slow. Then, CRACK! As the besiegers forcefully slammed it open._

 _Stomp, stomp, stomp._

 _A half dozen men, the largest carrying Bradner like a sack of potatoes, burst into the parlor._

 _A half dozen voices rose in a hysterical shriek._

" _QUIET! By the Old Gods, I said QUIET!"_

 _Jeyne and the others instantly shut up._

" _Are there other whores, here?"_

" _Up above," Halfpenny choked out._

" _Edgar. Rayf. Get'em," the big one snapped._

" _Right. Now any of you Northern lasses?"_

 _Jeyne was paralyzed. Her mouth wouldn't move._

" _Out with it. Don't have all night."_

 _A dull chorus of "no's" slipped out._

" _You. What are you blubbering. You. YOU!"_

 _Jeyne realized the brute was angrily pointing at her._

" _Are you from the North!?" he again demanded angrily_

" _Ja tror pa de gamla gudarna," she whimpered, proclaiming her belief in the Old Gods._

 _THUD!_

 _Forgotten, Bradner had been let go to drop to the floor. The hardened warrior rushed forward, scattering the clutch of frightened girls to the corners of the room. Surprise and almost tenderness swept away the ferocity upon his face as he knelt close, too close, to her._

" _Vad heter du, tjej?" he asked back in the tongue of the First Men for her name._

" _Jeyne … Jeyne Poole."_

 _A wide smile that revealed browned and a few missing teeth met her answer. "Blessed Lord Stark sent us ta find you. You're safe now, lass."_

* * *

Not revealing any disappointment in her response, Ser Garlan did not stop conversing with her; he simply changed tack. "How does Lord Stark fare?" he inquired considerately.

"Hhhmmmn?" she murmured, as she tried to gather herself. "Oh, my lord's health improves, but slowly. He was ill even before the sorcerous attack. The Old Gods have lain a heavy burden on him."

"Not so ill for some," the Hand snorted; most likely thinking of the crippling fate of his brother at the direwolf's teeth and the collapse of Lord Renly's rebellion. More graciously, "You did not happen to witness any of the … attack?"

She shook her head no. "Lady Sansa had only recently returned to the Maidenvault. We heard Grey Wind's howls and then … then Lady Stark's screams." Both Sansa and Jeyne were well familiar with such anguished, terrified cries. "Only arriving in time to overhear Lord Stark's accusation of the Red Priests." Then in almost a whisper, she added sadly, "He blames himself greatly for the slaughter."

"Ah, the Dragonpit," Ser Garlan's tone was heavy laden with meaning, but he said no more about the revenge extracted by the North on the R'hllor worshippers and Flea Bottom's poor. "How is Lady Brienne adjusting to service in House Stark?"

Jeyne blinked in surprise at the sudden change in topic. The ungainly, manly seeming, over-sized female knight was near as nervous and permanently tongue tied as Jeyne herself was. Though Jeyne's dread focused most on leaving the safety of the Maidenvault whereas Brienne's happened whenever etiquette required she put her sword away. She settled on telling what was easiest. "Arya … I mean the Lady Arya is well taken with her. They train together near day and night."

Bofors laughed. "Tell the Lord Hand anything a man in the Red Keep with only one working eye has not already seen. I know all the candidates for the Master-at-Arms Melee required the approval of the Small Council, but I wondered whether she might have disguised herself as a mystery knight to enter one of the other melees. I'd have bet good silver on her. She's laid me low a time or three."

"The King forbade any of the so called Rainbow Guard from participating in any of the Peace Tourney's sports. From what little I knew of Lady Brienne before, she seems too honorable to disregard a royal command."

"Aye, but isn't that what Mystery Knights are for? A pinch of salt to leaven the bread," Bofors argued with Northron stubbornness.

Jeyne wished that she could dare ask Lady Brienne to train her too. But a lady couldn't ... not that she was … what did it matter anyway.

* * *

If the clash of lance on shield or chest plate of the earlier single jousts had sounded like a lone thunder roll to Jeyne, the chaos and madness of the melee was a lightning storm without end to her. Heavily laden horses stomping to and fro without seeming rhyme or reason. Sers and Lordlings tumbling viciously to the ground from their saddles; only to eagerly spring up with blunted blade, dulled axe, or heavy mace seeking retribution for their fall. Or remaining crumpled, defeated hulks in the muck; unconsciously awaiting daring squires to dodge their way through the constant ebb and flow of violence in order to drag them to safety and a maester's care.

About her, the blood thirsty crowd blood screamed both praise and scorn at the winnowing of the participants now able to win the position of Master-at-Arms in the Red Keep.

Not wanting to bring shame to the righteous, martial house that protected her nor to the honorable King in whose box she now sat as the sole laa … woman, Jeyne, unable to flee or speak, at least tried to contain her shivering and to not shy her eyes away from the brutal displays of knightly virtue below.

It had all started prettily enough. Forty Nine warriors wearing their finest armor had ridden into the Pit on shiny groomed war horses, then divided into their seven prearranged teams; organized by the location within the Seven Kingdoms that their houses sat: Crownlands, Vale, Riverlands, Dornish Marches, Stormlands, Reach, and Hedge Knights of the Realm.

The Steward of the Tourney then had taken the time to honor each by calling out their name and house to much applause. The Reach and Stormlands knights earned the loudest accolades; though Jeyne hardly recognized a name. When the trumpets finally blew to begin the "wee game" as Captain Bofors called it, each group had charged out with weapons swinging from their assigned wall of the seven sided Melee Pit.

Of all the chosen participants, the only two she could distinguish by the colours and designs on their surcoats were Ser Franklyn Cockshaw and Ser Timon the Scrapesword. However, both were among the first to fall in the heaving, loud scrum of men and beasts. Having already gained great honors and wealth in the Joust, their brother knights were not about to let either win the additional laurel of becoming the Royal Master-at-Arms.

The numbers dwindled.

Became a trickle.

And then became just two, both ragged and soiled; though still mounted, riding across a broken landscape littered with dented shields and lost weapons.

Those in the crowd from the Reach cheered mightily for the one whose torn coat of arms now sported only half a field of nightingales. While the other, whom Jeyne heard was from the Vale and thus was equally loudly by all who had supported King Stannis from the beginning, could only be identified by the sole black raven carrying a bloody heart visible through the filth upon his chest.

The nightingale's ball and chain flail outranged the raven's sword.

An unexpected backhand blow smashed the ball into the back of the Vale knight's armored head, causing him to pitch out of his saddle; sword slipping from his grasp.

The Reacher turned his mount rapidly about, and then was delayed a moment finding his fallen foe's own horse in his way. Sufficient time for the wobbly raven to regain his feet. Then the dented helmet shifted between watching the nightingale's approach and where yards away on the trampled turf his sword lay.

The Ser pulled his stallion to a stop and nobly gestured for his opponent to go pick up his weapon.

The whole of the Melee Pit shook as the crowd roared approbation at the gesture.

The Vale knight, a Corbray she heard someone mutter, scurried for his blade and then bowed low.

Perhaps inspired by the cheers or simply confident, the nightingale dismounted.

"Fool," spat Bofors.

The raven pointed his dulled blade over towards the royal box. And then both more limped than marched over before it. They bowed to the King. They bowed to each other. And then they charged.

The violence was terrible.

They fell together into the filth right before Jeyne.

Grappling.

Roaring.

Beating.

Again.

And again.

And again.

* * *

 _Jeyne stood naked before Lord Petyr, her master, as he circled round and round her in his private room in the brothel. Judging her worth. Noting her flaws._

" _No, auburn does not work for you. Pity. Thoughhhhh," he drawled. "You do have much the look of a Stark to you. Hhhhhmmmn. Your hair was dark before, wasn't it, sweetling?" he smarmed with no sincerity._

" _Yes, my lord. Brown," she whispered._

 _Thoughtfully, the demon stroked the pointed little beard on his chin. "Interesting. Interesting," he muttered. Then, a brief laugh. "I'll order Mother to have one of the other whores dye it stark black." Another short bark of amusement immediately followed._

" _Yes, my lord," she agreed. The pain and fear experienced over the last fortnight had made her an expert at submitting._

" _Now show me what the other girls have taught you."_

" _My lord?"_

 _CRACK!_

 _The narrow cane the beast held in one hand exploded against the side of a leather boot. "Now," his voice repeated with deadly softness; eyes chill as ice._

 _She approached him and dropped to her knees. Opened his pants. Touched her first real cockstand. Thankfully, smaller than the bananas and carrots that Jenny Diver, Lucy Brown, Sukey Tawdry, Sloppy Sadie, and Miss Lotte had taught her on._

 _Smack._

 _She quivered lightly as the cane unexpectedly slapped her bare arse._

" _No teeth," the demon hissed._

 _The humiliation went on endlessly; tears silently falling from her eyes as she fought desperately to not spew the contents of her breakfast over him._

" _Enough," came the command._

 _She gratefully sucked in a breathe that did not hold his musky odor._

 _But then he grabbed her by her hair, pulling her stumbling, kneeling self halfway across the carpeted floor to his bed._

 _He threw her down._

 _Flipped her over._

 _Grabbed her face so that she must stare up into his emotionless grey-green eyes._

 _He pierced her; taking her maidenhead._

 _Jeyne shrieked in pain and utter despair._

* * *

"And do you, Ser Roland, accept the privileges and duties of serving as my loyal Master-at-Arms?"

"By the _Seven_ , I do, your Grace," the bastard and victor proclaimed loud enough for the entire Melee Pit to hear though he knelt with bowed head before his king.

"Arise, Ser Roland Storm; and take your rightful place among my Household in service to the Iron Throne."

At that, the scar faced knight stood, bruised and bloodied, but sporting an enormous smile though his lip be split.

The King took a large step backward, then raised an arm. "Hail, Ser Roland!"

Quickly, the Hand, who sat beside her, stood. "Hail, Ser Roland!" he shouted in agreement with the Crowned Stag.

Those around the Royal Box joined in next, rising to their feet with their cries of "Ser Roland!" "Champion!" "NIghtsong!"

Followed immediately by the Stormlands contingent in the crowd, for he was one of them; and then the rest of the crowd tacked on their approval of his triumph and reward to varying degrees of enthusiasm. Of which the knight did a slow circle to drink it all in.

As the shouts finally began to diminish, Ser Roland, perhaps to prove his loyalty - for he was half-brother to the former Rainbow Guard, Lord Bryce Caron; and, had also been a Lord Renly supporter, took up his own chant. "Hail King Stannis! His is the Fury! King Stannis!"

The resulting cries of "Stannis!" "Stannis!" "Stannis!" might not have reached the same heights as those given to the Melee's winner. But they sufficed.

Showing a bit of what Lord Stark oddly called "PR," Stannis Baratheon too pivoted slowly about to show himself to the thousands crammed into the stands. The Crowned Stag paused only once in his turn, tight face crinkling in a brief frown. It was before Sansa, who stood respectfully for her King; but did not shout out his name.

Jeyne murmured a prayer.

However, the whirlwind of noise drowned out and beat apart her plaintive whisper into nothing.


End file.
